


Skin and Bones

by blackchaps



Series: Yellow [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Sexual Abuse, Shapeshifting, read the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-14 21:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 46,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackchaps/pseuds/blackchaps
Summary: Harold knows everything about John, except for one large detail that's going to get him in a lot of trouble. John wants to be left alone, and he's very suspicious of anyone who has plans for him after years of abuse at the hands of the government. The fur is gonna fly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure indulgence on my part, written in my Yellow universe. The first is Turn Into Something Beautiful, set in the Stargate Atlantis fandom, John/Rodney. The titles are from the song, 'Yellow' by Coldplay. If you're looking for an episode recitation story this isn't your story. Also, if you're looking for steamy porn, not gonna find it here either. Sorry.
> 
> Is this a crossover? Not until the very damn end, where the stories dovetail. I'll give you a warning if you want to ditch before the SGA boys show up. All non-con is off screen. Thanks for clicking, and if you read it, WOW! Thank you!
> 
> The story is complete but it's in chapters so it's going to take me awhile to post with my junk laptop. One more apology. I did what I wanted with POV with no respect for everything I was taught when I began writing in fandom so many years ago.

Harold knew everything about him.

Their paths kept crossing, like fate was determined they’d meet, and Harold was in debt to him even if he didn’t know it. Harold had never meant to hurt anyone, but he had, and someday, he wanted to help him. It was a shock when that day arrived, and he moved as fast as he was able.

The precinct smelled like dirty piss, and John made sure to breathe through his mouth. They’d let him keep his wraparound sunglasses, and he felt like he was walking a tightrope.

“You want some water?”

“No, thanks.” But the detective set the cup down in front of him anyway. He tucked his gloved hands further in his pockets. She wanted his prints, and for him, that was a death sentence. He couldn’t even count the number of tubes of super glue that he’d gone through over the years.

“It’d help me out if you had a bruise or two, and I’d press changes against you, but the video shows they attacked you first.” She was trying to get him to look straight at her. He tilted his head and looked anywhere else. She sighed. “I’m Detective Carter, by the way. You were Special Forces?”

He shrugged, but he had to say something, or this might escalate. “I was one of the lucky ones.”

She nodded, eyes intent on him. “I have some contacts. I can get you some help. Get you off the street.”

Tucking tighter into his coat, he frowned and pressed his sunglasses to his face. “I’m mostly blind from an IED. I’m useless.”

Her expression of shock and pity nearly drove him out the door. “Let me help.”

The door opened, and a guy in an expensive suit stepped inside. “If you’re not charging my client, we’re leaving.”

No one was more surprised than him, but he didn’t argue about it. He owed someone, so he got in the back of the car and waited to find out who he might have to kill. For some reason, he thought it’d be a shorter drive.

Harold picked the location carefully, wanting to give the other man plenty of room to walk away. The shabby figure that stepped from the town car made Harold catch a ragged breath. He wore sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day, and he moved like he was walking to his grave.

“If I owe you something, I’m a little short on cash.” John spread his arms, showing off his wretched clothes and moving closer. Harold’s security team didn’t much like that, but Harold waved them back. John wasn’t a danger, not yet.

“A moment of your time then, Mr. Reese.” Harold watched him react. “Yes, I know your name is John Reese, well, the one you go by more than the others. You see, Mr. Reese, I know everything about you.”

Fast, John was fast, and he was practically looming in Harold’s face. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

That wasn’t true, but now wasn’t the time. Harold had practiced his next words, but seeing him in this state drove them all away. “I know you’re tired and are considering a faster method than drinking yourself to death. But, you see, I don’t think you need drugs, or therapy. I think you need a purpose.”

“And you’re going to give me one?” John growled out the words, before glancing back at the street.

“I have a proposition, yes. It’ll probably get us both killed, but you don’t care about that anyway.” Harold looked straight up into John’s sunglasses, searching for his eyes. “Are you willing to listen?”

John ducked his head, sucked some air over his teeth, trying to get a good scent on this guy. He smelled like books, tea, and there was no fear in him. At least, not yet, and he’d said he knew everything. Also, John wasn’t doing anything else. Being homeless didn’t take up that much time out of his day.

“I’ll listen.” John was fairly sure he’d regret it. He usually did.

The guy gave him a tight nod. “You may call me Mr. Finch.”

“Seems a little formal.” John followed him back to the car, glad to be getting out of the wind, even if it meant the confines of a car. He could still kill them all, if he had to, and he might. So, this Finch guy waited until they on the street, a good distance from his security, to start talking, and then it was just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, and John wished he had a drink. He brushed the little man, careful not to knock him down, but close enough to dip into his pockets and score some cash and a credit card.

“Mr. Reese, are you listening?”

“I think you’re a bored, rich man, and she’s probably someone you’re stalking, or an ex-girlfriend, and I’m not interested in whatever scheme you have planned.” John strolled away, not looking back.

Harold nearly bolted after him, leg be damned, but he could see that John wasn’t going to be reasonable. Living on the streets, exhaustion, and too much whiskey was probably to blame. His security men moved like they might try to stop him, and Harold motioned them back. John could kill them without trying. He was that good, and Harold was going to have to go with Plan B.

Of course, Plan B was expensive, and seeing John passed out from alcohol was very unpleasant, but Harold was intrigued that he’d taken the time to shave and cut his hair. Harold supposed there had been enough cash in his pocket to fund a plane ticket somewhere, but then why was John holed up in this wretched hotel, drinking like a fish?

Setting the stage took a minute, and he paid everyone handsomely to forget they’d ever been there. He supposed, as he settled into a chair, that this might be his last morning on Earth, because enraging a CIA operative was far from the smartest thing he’d ever done.

The phone ringing blasted through John’s skull, and he grabbed for it, not understanding why one of his arms was zip-tied to the bed post, even as he struggled against it.

Pressing the phone to his ear, John heard, “You see, Mr. Reese, the information I have is never wrong. You need to know what it’s like to listen to someone die and know you can do nothing about it.” The line clicked dead.

John roared his anger, fighting to get free as the screams of the woman filled his ears. In his mind, it was Jessica, and nothing would stop him from saving her. His clothes dropped away, and he hit the connection door running. The door blew open under his fury, and he nearly tripped, surging up to find only Finch and a tape recorder in the room. His anger propelled him the final distance and he rose up on his hind legs, pushing Finch to the wall and roaring his displeasure in Finch’s face.

“This wasn’t in your file,” Harold said, surprised he was able to form words with the lion’s teeth inches from his face. He wasn’t scared, as much as certain he was going to die. This changed everything, but now it was even more important to convince him. “You were too late for your friend, Jessica, but I’m giving you a chance to be on time for the next person. You can help people, because I think that’s all you ever wanted to do. I will never lie to you. Together, we’ll try to make a difference.”

The lion, John, shook his head, black mane flying, and huffed. He dropped to all fours and started pacing back and forth, back and forth, making the hotel room seem very small.

“If it’s any consolation, we’ll both probably die, actually die this time.” Harold eased from the wall, straightened his tie, and bit back the urge to clean the lion spit off his glasses. John turned, faced him, and sat down. He was huge, and if he wanted Harold dead, that was a foregone conclusion. His fur was matted in spots, and he was thin, very thin, nothing but skin and bones topped with a shaggy, black mane. Harold had an irrational urge to get him a steak or two. If he lived, that was.

John wanted to kill him, rend him, and the only thing keeping him from it was the fact that Finch didn’t smell afraid. He wasn’t scared, not at all, and that made no sense. John had made men wet their pants before, and this little guy just straightened his tie and looked sympathetic. Taking in the room again, he spotted the tape recorder and wondered who exactly Mr. Finch was. Reluctantly, knowing he was going to pay a price for this because he didn’t have any money left for food, he pulled his skin on and fought the dizziness away.

“You’re not government?” He pointed at the recorder and made sure his feet were under him.

“Oh, my, no. I have resources, but I’m very sure the government wants me dead, so no.” Finch stepped and tapped the edge of the old-school recorder. “This is from a private source, not NSA.” He took a deep breath. “Trousers?”

John couldn’t help it. He grinned, going back through the door to his room to yank on his jeans. He was still mad, but he did admire persistence in a Human.

“The reason for the sunglasses is clear now.” Finch sounded pleased, as if he’d figured out the piece of a puzzle. “Can I assume you left no fingerprints at the precinct?”

“I’m not an idiot,” John rumbled. “If the CIA finds out I’m not dead, I’m dead.” And that was why he should kill him. Snap his neck. Clean the room. Move on. “Why aren’t you scared?” Only that nagged at him.

“Oh, trust me, I’m fairly sure you’re going to kill me, but I knew that before you snorted lion snot in my face, Mr. Reese.” Finch dramatically pulled out a handkerchief and began to clean his glasses. “It does complicate this endeavor, but only in the sense that we must be vigilant that no one discover your genetic heritage.”

“You’re going to suggest we create a false identity where I’m your property, aren’t you?” John slid into his shirt, waiting to hear the first lie from Finch’s mouth. Everyone wanted to own him. Well, some people wanted to chop him up and sell his parts, but most Humans just wanted to collar and leash him. “Show me off to your friends in a gold collar and leash?”

Finch’s eyes went very round behind his glasses. “None of my cover identities have the resources to own a Feline. Well, perhaps Harold Crane does, but he would never.” He paused. “Perhaps we could save that as a desperation ploy when there are no other alternatives. I’d have to create new identities for both of us, and--.”

“Okay, stop.” John put up his hand, believing him, even if it sounded crazy. “How many ex-government agents do you have working for you?”

There was a long hesitation, and Finch looked away. “I had hired another, but he…” His voice trailed away and he smelled sad now.

“Yeah, I get it. The job is dangerous.” John was more inclined to trust him now, well, not trust, but not kill him either. “Did you clean up at my other hotel?”

“Of course, Mr. Reese.” Finch nodded. “And this room will be sanitized as soon as we’ve left. I own this hotel, by the way.” He shrugged. “I’ll be selling it tomorrow. No traces back to me, just in case.”

“You’re paranoid.” John couldn’t help a small smile. “That’s good.” He finished dressing and wished his whiskey had made the trip with him. “I’ll need special contact lenses, multiple pairs of sunglasses, tubes of super glue, and unless you brought it, my white cane.”

“You pretend to be blind.” Finch looked him straight in his orange cat eyes. “And your hair is insane again.”

John brushed the long strands back off his forehead. “It’s my lion hair. I cut it to blend in with Humans, but when I Switch back, there it is.”

“That’s inconvenient.” Finch frowned, just a little. “We’ll have to take precautions that no one gets hold of a sample.”

And just like that, John worked for him. “I also have special dietary requirements.” He was so hungry. “I need food, now.”

“I’ll stock up on puppies and small ponies.” Finch knew his way around sarcasm. And John chuffed, hiding a smile. He’d been bored anyway.

********


	2. Chapter 2

“So, what is this place?”

“The decline of Western civilization,” Harold said, echoing back to his friend, Nathan, who he still missed terribly. He hoped Nathan would approve of Harold’s latest attempt at helping the people on the irrelevant list. “After a series of budget cuts, I bought a number of libraries from the city, and then that company went bankrupt, leaving all the properties in a sort of paperwork limbo, if you will. As long as we’re careful, discreet, we can use this place as a base of operations.”

“I promise not to eat too many homeless people,” John said, following him up a long staircase that made Finch breathe hard. John leaned a little close and took a careful scent off him. Finch smelled like pain, sweat, and amusement, an interesting combination. John was careful not to offer him a hand. He was sure he would be rebuffed. “So, this library is like you, hiding off the grid.”

“You could say that, yes, but you and I also know that sometimes it’s best to hide in plain sight.” Finch hobbled over to a round, oak table and took a seat behind an array of computers. “I’m going to pull up all the information on our new number. Feel free to poke in corners. And start a list of things you’ll need. Oh, and make sure to familiarize yourself with the generators.”

John raised his eyebrows at him. “And if I Switch into my fur?” He wanted to so much. He’d eaten on Finch’s dime, and it’d be fine, but he followed the rules the Center for Feline Control had pounded into his skull to this day: once a month, no more. He’d had his Switch this morning, and he was fine, except that he wanted.

“I’d ask that you don’t roar directly behind me, but other than that: feel free.” Finch paused. “I really should get a freezer in here and stock it with steaks,” he muttered. His hands began to fly over the keyboard, and John walked off in a daze. It seemed his life was changing.

Harold watched him stroll away, eyes darting everywhere. They had so much to do, and really, very little time to get it all done. He never knew if they had a day, hours, or a week, before someone died, and John would have unique requirements to work the numbers. Placing order after order, he had everything delivered to three separate safe houses. It’d take a while to get everything to the library, but John would help, and if he liked one of the houses, he could have it.

A growl made Harold look away from his monitor, and John was right there, behind him, tail flicking in a rhythmic way. He was studying the board, casting a side eye to Harold once or twice.

“Yes, these are the numbers. My failures. All I get is a social security number, you see. I never know if they’re the victim or the perpetrator, and I failed them all, in one way or another.” Harold didn’t flinch as John snapped his teeth together. “Where I get the number from doesn’t matter.” He was careful not to lie. “Anyway, at this point, I have no idea where exactly it comes from. However, I do know that it’s never wrong. Sometimes I’m not smart enough to figure it out, but that’s an operator issue.”

John paced away, glanced over his shoulder, and then bounded off. Harold raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps I should order some cat toys.”

The library was big, floors of books, dust, interesting smells, and it took a little while to find all the generators. He could see that Finch had them wired so if one failed, the next one would kick in, and John upped his opinion again. Finch was obviously smart, but he was also mechanical. He probably had many hidden talents. It was a shame he was so physically damaged, but he seemed to get along well enough.

A rat ran out for cover, and John pounced, eating it in one bite. He was always hungry, and while he didn’t eat ponies, he might if one showed itself in the library. Dashing up and down the stairs, he found good places to hide himself, and guns, and other necessities. He managed the door to the roof, and he made sure no one could see him before sniffing into every corner. The sunshine felt good on his fur, even if it was chilly, and he paced the perimeter.

If he were honest, in this moment, his cat was happy, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Going back downstairs, he returned to the latrine where he’d left his clothes and took off his fur. He was going to need to eat, and soon, and he went to Finch’s table.

“I like it here,” he said, surprised at himself when the words came out. “I ate a rat.” He had the urge to clap his hand over his mouth so he’d shut up.

Finch scrunched his nose. “I suppose it was inevitable. We need to hurry.” He stood, opened a box, and began taking out items. “Here are six cover identities, and credit cards to different accounts. None of it traceable, of course. It’s like when you worked at the Agency.”

“Except then I knew who was paying me.” John went through them before tucking everything away in his pockets. “I hope our lack of intel doesn’t get me killed.”

“I hope that as well.” Finch hesitated a long moment, and then continued, “The numbers I get are the result of a back door that I opened into a government system, but that’s all I get, nothing more, not ever, so please don’t ask me.”

John could smell the truth of that, and he didn’t like it. “You hacked the DOD?”

Finch let out a raw chuckle. “Oh, so many times.” He pulled more equipment from a drawer. “These will let you clone her phone, just get close enough, and here is your phone, with an ear bud so you can go hands free. I’ll be with you.”

“I’ll need a gun.” John would need more than one, but one was a start.

“I don’t approve of weapons.” Finch looked very serious on that point. “I know at the CIA you killed, but this job isn’t about that.”

“They’ll have guns. I can’t save her if I’m dead.” John made sure to sound reasonable, calm. “I’ll avoid head shots, if that helps.”

“I would appreciate it.” Finch waved a hand at him. “And what are we doing about your hair?” His voice might’ve screeched a little.

John flashed him a grin. “Today, I’ll wear a hat, but order me some clippers. The latrine on this floor isn’t terrible. I’ll make it work.”

“It’s awful. I’ll throw money at it.” Finch rolled his eyes. “Will you be starting at the courthouse?”

Shrugging, John got moving. If Finch were right about the time constraint, he’d need to get right to work and stay with her. John fought back a grin. His lion loved a good hunt.

Harold hoped he’d told John enough to keep him off the trail of the Machine. That would only lead to trouble of a sort that neither of them could handle. Their number was proving a difficult one, and he was glad to see that John took the initiative to buy an appropriate camera. Harold used an old piece of cracked glass to tape up information about her life. “I suppose this was before whiteboards,” he muttered, rolling it to a good spot near his desk.

Visuals always helped him think, but after that he found time to visit one of his safe houses and bring back some of the items John would need, since he owned nothing. That done, he went to inspect the bathroom. He had a feeling that John would be spending considerable time in the building. Where else could he turn into a lion safely? That hadn’t been the original plan, and Harold was going to need help turning this floor into a more livable situation. Money wasn’t the problem – discretion was. He’d need to find someone willing to do the work and willing to disappear afterwards. In New York, there were a number of people who needed assistance. He’d need to do a little digging.

His phone chirped, and he answered it quickly. “Mr. Reese?”

“I broke into her apartment. Sending you everything. I also set up cameras across the street. Sending you access. Next, I’m going to the courthouse to hack into her cell phone.”

“Good. You were careful?” Harold was impressed on how quickly John was moving.

“My middle name.” John clicked off, and Harold sat down to start filtering through her life, and John was back a short time later. Together, they taped up pictures and discussed who might be trying to kill Diane Hansen. She was tough lawyer, but she was trying a case that had ties to a gang, and apparently, an ex-boyfriend who continued to pester her. Harold sat for a second to rest his leg and let John give him a rundown.

The CIA had obviously trained him very well. He wasn’t just an assassin. “I’ll be keeping an eye on her office from across the street on a convenient rooftop.”

“Let me know how I can help. Some of the items you requested are here.” Harold waved at the table, piled with bags.

“Did you get me a gun?” John smirked though, so he was just being rude. Harold shot him a short glare and gave him a rundown of Hansen’s financials. John listened as he shoveled through the bags. “I’m going to need more clothes.”

“I’m working on that. They’ll be delivered to this address, where you’ll find more of what you need.” Harold pushed the address on a slip of paper towards him, which he stuffed in a pocket. “If you like that safe house, feel free to have it for your own.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “No promises.” He picked up a bag and disappeared into the library, and Harold wondered if the lion would make an appearance again today. Steaks. He needed to get steaks, and he huffed out a breath of annoyance. Anonymity was going to be difficult if he had a grocer’s truck worth of food delivered here weekly.

“Mr. Reese, do you have plenty of cash? Is there something more I can assist you with?” Silence instead of answers, and Harold trailed down past the periodicals, more curious than was probably good for him. He heard the buzzing sound of the clippers snap off, and two seconds later, John came out of the horrible bathroom, shirt in hand. Harold stared at John’s hair, what was left of it. “Military cut, I see.”

“It grows fast. By tomorrow, I’ll blend in better.” John started buttoning up his shirt. “I was in the Army, Finch.”

“You’ll stand out as military.” Harold would have to fix this. “Next time, let me handle the clippers, please.”

“It’s only a problem once a month, so don’t worry.” John led the way back to the computers, and Harold babied his leg to limp after him.

“Once a month?” Harold was beginning to think there was a lot of information about John left out of those files.

“That’s how often I Switch.” From his tone of voice, John was trying to be patient. It was annoying. “And yes, I have cash. I’ll be in touch.” He was gone, leaving Harold to ponder how good exactly John’s hearing was.

********


	3. Chapter 3

John had been beat, shot at, in a car accident, and the satisfaction that she was going to jail paled in comparison to his desire to bite her head off.

“Mr. Reese, I can hear your stomach rumbling from over here.” Finch fussed at him. “Do you ever eat?”

Finch was not only John’s boss, but a bit of a mother hen, and if John had had his tail on, he’d have whipped it in frustration. “I don’t eat on the job, Finch. You never know when you have to run.”

“How do you even survive?” Finch sounded confused. “Get something from the food truck. I’ll wait.” And he walked away to a nearby bench and sat down. John considered just leaving, heading to some crappy hotel where he could punch the wall in peace, but they needed to talk. He sighed, stepping into line, and by the time it was his turn, he wanted one of everything. Forcing his lion appetite away, he got a hoagie and a soda and returned to sit by Finch. Finch nodded. “I’ll make sure the refrigerator at that location we discussed is always full of quick foods to eat. You’re nothing but bones, Mr. Reese.”

“There’s a camera near that place.” John hadn’t gone inside, but he’d walked by it. It was convenient, bland, and had a back exit; however, he’d been cautious.

“My apologies, yes. It’s one of my cameras.” Finch surprised him. “This city is one of the most heavily surveilled in the world, and I will be making attempts to clean up after your messes.” He made a funny snort. “How is Detective Fusco?”

“Alive.” John stopped talking and started eating, not even looking up until he was done.

“That has to be some sort of record for sandwich consumption. Perhaps we’ll enter you in a food-eating contest.” Finch had edged slightly further away from him, probably afraid of flying crumbs. “I’ll call you when our next number comes along.”

John had the feeling he was being dismissed, and he still didn’t really know what the hell he was doing. His lion wanted out, that never happened. He was hungry and tired, and he lowered his head to sip his soda. He’d wanted to be free, no one giving him orders, and this was it, sorta. When he’d been homeless, he hadn’t worried about where he was sleeping, and now it felt like he was expected to go home. Home? He didn’t even know what that meant.

“Mr. Reese?” Finch waited until John looked at him. “Well done.”

Surprise almost made him smile. He ducked his head. “So, you’re not mad about the grenade launcher?”

“I never said that!” Finch got to his feet and headed the opposite direction that John had planned to go, and John almost trailed after him. It wouldn’t do to look eager, though, so he finished his drink before heading in the direction of the safe house. Just to look inside, not that he’d stay there, because Finch would know he was there, which only made sense in John’s head. This was a job, not a friendship. John had to be careful, not smile for the first person, really ever, to worry that he was eating enough.

He also needed to decide what to do with the guns in the trunk of the car he’d stolen. Shoving down a chuckle at how his life had change, he ditched the car first, careful to wipe it down, got his weapons, and started for the safe house.

It was a nice place, better than most places he’d stayed over the years. Fully decorated in a style he didn’t hate, but he wondered what Finch would think if a lion destroyed the high-quality drapes. Curious, John checked the fridge. The pile of steaks in the freezer made his eyes bulge, and he tucked all of them away in the duffle with his guns. The closet was next, and he found several suits, hanging in a row. The duffle was heavy when he finished. Nice place, but he couldn’t sleep here, especially not with his lion wanting a Switch. That couldn’t happen, so he’d have to get moving.

Grabbing up the duffle, he locked up and left out the back. It was dark out now, and he used the shadows to get some distance from the safe house before taking to the sidewalks. He could’ve grabbed a cab, but he wasn’t entirely sure where he was going. He had money to buy whiskey and he hesitated in front of a liquor store, but the idea that Finch would call and find him drunk sent him on down the sidewalk. Twice, he checked his phone for no reason at all except that he was antsy, and finally it was the steaks that drove him to the library.

His lion wanted them. Now. He wanted to curse, but he gave in because he wasn’t an idiot. In his life before, his lion had never made demands, but that had been when there were no options, no choices, except death. Right now, freedom was heady, and he wanted… food. So, he ended up at the library. It was dark, Finch long gone to wherever, but John had no trouble getting inside, and he didn’t bother with the lights.

First, he found a good place to hide his guns, then he hung up the suits in a small room off the bathroom, maybe it’d been a coat closet for all he knew. Only then did he allow himself to open the steaks and lay them out. Quickly, he removed his clothes. He felt guilty, like he was disobeying the rules, and at the same time he wanted to roar, maybe scratch something. He’d come late into his lion, and sometimes, he felt like neither of his skins fit.

He Switched and ate the meat like a wild animal. Part of him was ashamed, and other part wanted more, right now. Chuffing, he made his way to the roof, slammed the door open, and went out into the night air. He wanted to stand on the corner and roar at the world. But that would be stupid, so instead he found an old air conditioner, still warm from the sun and jumped on top of it. He wasn’t skin and bones. He just wasn’t fat, and he cleaned his paws and whiskers. It wasn’t like there were mirrors around when he Switched. Of course, usually when his handler wanted a Switch, it was to kill someone. Flopping back flat, he listened to the city and wanted more, but he didn’t know what.

It wasn’t that Harold checked up on him, but he was curious as to where John had spent last night after a difficult case. The safe houses were empty, so he pinged John’s phone, a little surprised to find it was in the library. Armed with that information, he bought a coffee to go with his tea and a box of donuts. Even if John had already eaten, he needed to eat again.

Harold made his slow way up the stairs, put the items down on the table, and listened, but he heard nothing. He’d hired a contractor to do the work on the bathroom and renovate one of the larger rooms, and it seemed that was a good decision if John was going to be at the library often.

Booting up his computers, he checked all the surveillance cameras, as was his habit, and he stopped in shock seeing a large, bony lion sleeping on an old air conditioning unit on the roof. There were no buildings with a view to the roof, but there were helicopters in New York. Harold could troop up more steps than he cared to think about, or he could monitor air traffic. Sipping his tea, he watched the lion sleep, wondering how tired a man had to be to sleep with his head drooped over like that. Of course, John wasn’t Human. He was Feline, and that was something altogether different.

Today, barring any numbers, Harold intended to do some digging and learn everything he could about Felines. It wasn’t a subject he’d ever been interested in, and he’d never seen one except on TV, and he’d certainly never seen a Switch. It’d been… slightly gross, to tell the truth, and he wondered why John had said he did it once a month. Were there rules? Or was it just biology? And the math here was easy enough to do. Three Switches in three days, so what was going on? Movement caught Harold’s eye, and he watched John stretch before jumping down and slinking back to the door.

Busying himself, Harold minimized the surveillance cameras, opened the spreadsheet that detailed his daily activities by alias, and got himself a donut.

Shame licked at John’s heels as he bolted for the cover of the library. He’d obviously lost his damn mind, but he didn’t Switch, needing intel. He cursed at the mess he’d left in the hallway even as he scooped up a bone to gnaw on some more later. If Harold had walked this way, he’d think John was some sort of animal.

The irony of that pulled John up short, but he stopped at the corner and strained to hear what was going on in Harold’s lair. There was typing, and John sniffed the air. Donuts. Coffee. Tea. And John nearly groaned from want. He dared a peek.

“I see you found the steaks. Excellent.” Finch didn’t turn his head from the monitor. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to come to the library early. I’ll always call you when there’s a number.”

John was stuck between wanting to stroll out, chew on his bone in front of him, maybe roar a bit, and wanting the safety of his Human skin. Unable to decide, he edged out and then shuffled over near the table. Finch turned his body fully to meet John’s eyes. John stood up a little straighter, grumbling around the bone still in his mouth, wondering if he was going to be yelled at for being in his fur.

“Honestly, I never realized lions could have black manes.” Harold was so serious, and he wasn’t yelling. “Perhaps if I took you to the dog groomer your Human hair would be less crazy.” He didn’t even smell nervous. “Donut?”

Unable to resist, John dropped his bone, took the box in his mouth, and crouched down to eat them all. He didn’t look up until the box was in shreds. He’d eaten some of it. It was fine. Harold was busy on his computers, and some part of John was still waiting to be yelled at, maybe beaten with bamboo. No one had ever liked his lion, not even Kara, who’d been happy to exploit him but called him a fleabag. He settled down to the floor and chewed his bone for a moment, just to think.

“I suppose I’ll need to get you a tub of water. Do lions drink coffee?” Finch made a hand gesture at one of his screens. “I hacked into the Center’s database.”

Sitting up, John roared his hatred, and Finch nodded. “They do seem to be quite despicable. I’m not sure why all the Felines don’t just eat them and be done with it.” He paused. “Also, you have frosting on your face.”

Not sure whether to laugh or snarl, John went to Switch into his skin. He needed a shower, but the latrine was lacking that amenity, so he put on his dirty clothes. He washed up before going out to the coffee, which he discovered was still warm enough to drink without complaining.

While he sipped it, he cleaned up his messes, even tossing the bone in the trash. He’d get a new one, he promised himself, knowing it was ridiculous. Words were sticking in his throat because he felt like he should justify his lion, but he hadn’t done anything wrong, not really.

“Ah, I see. The Center advocates that Felines Switch once a month. That’s ridiculous.” Finch actually snorted. “You should do what you want.”

“It’s never been that easy.” John pulled an old wooden chair close enough that he didn’t have to shout. Sitting down, he drank his coffee. He should apologize, but he didn’t want to, even though it had been a regular occurrence when he’d been in the CIA. “I’m used to going that long, but…” He lowered his head, hating how he felt. “There were steaks.”

“I’m not apologizing for feeding you.” Finch turned to him now. “Do you want me to delete all your information from the Center? Their system is abysmal. It would eliminate the possibility of someone discovering your identity through DNA and fingerprints.”

Surprised, John sat up straight. “The CIA--.”

“I took care of them yesterday. Virus. Terrible thing,” Finch said with real scorn. “But if I wipe the Center, essentially, you’ll have no digital footprint.”

“If I’m caught, I’ll have to have an owner, or I’ll be shipped back to the Center to be put down. I’m too old to be sold again.” John hated them all.

“Let’s avoid that. Decision?”

“Wipe it.” John didn’t have to think too hard about it. His family was gone. He was starting over, late in life, but this was a new beginning, one without a master. He looked down and noticed his hands were shaking. “I need a drink.”

Finch, wisely, said nothing to that. When John’s coffee was gone, Finch pushed another scrap of paper at him. “If you could pick up the items at that safe house, I’d be grateful. Again, if you like it, consider it yours.”

John looked at it. “Is this part of the job, running errands for you?” He could hear the snarl in his voice, and he wasn’t sure why it was there, but he wanted to know if he was two parts hired vigilante and one part errand boy.

“Absolutely not.” Finch took back the piece of paper and stuffed it away. “As I said earlier, you are under no obligation to me. This job is about the numbers, nothing else.”

The words were stiff, but John still couldn’t smell any fear on him. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Finch got to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Reese, I do have errands to run so we’re ready when the next number comes.”

John sat perfectly still while Finch gathered his coat and left the building, limping more than he had yesterday. Dropping his empty coffee cup in the trash, John bolted for one of the side exits. It was only when he caught a glimpse of himself in a store window that he realized how out of place he was, walking the streets of Manhattan with dirty clothes and crazy hair. The sunglasses made him stand out more, not less. Keeping up with Finch was easy enough, but there was no way he hadn’t spotted him.

When a town car pulled up to a corner and Finch got in the back, the game was over, and John leaned against a building to take stock. The suits were going to be a necessity, and he had to have a place to live. His lion wanted to live at the library, but it would give Finch more control over him. Remembering the address on the scrap of paper, John caught a cab over there, as it was too far to walk looking like a bum.

This safe house was a row house, and he picked the lock quickly, before someone called the police on him. His phone rang before he made it out of the front hallway, stepping around a pile of boxes.

“I turned off the alarm for you remotely,” Finch said. “No number yet.” And he hung up.

John was tempted to punch the wall in frustration. Instead, he prowled around the house. The layout was nice, good sightlines, and the fridge was full. He sat down and ate while he fumed. Finch must think John was crazy. Of course, most days, John felt crazy. He finished the sandwich in record time and went to find some whiskey. There wasn’t any, and he had to sit down on the sofa and scrub at his face with his shaking hands. Okay, so he was in withdrawal, and he could go out to buy a bottle, or he could live through it. He wasn’t an alcoholic, damn it. He’d just spent more than a few days drunk, and he would be fine. He didn’t need it.

He wondered if Jessica would be ashamed of him, and he had to pace. She’d loved him, and he’d loved her, but he’d never Switched for her. She’d worked on his Army base, and all they’d ever had was stolen moments. He’d never even fantasized about a life with her. It wasn’t possible. After 9/11, the CIA took ownership of him, and he’d known he would die working for them. And he almost had, escaping by the skin of his teeth.

Tracking Jessica down had been foolish and finding out her husband had murdered her nearly killed him. He should’ve been there, somehow. Killing Peter hadn’t even been satisfying. Peter had brandished a poker from the fireplace at him, and even injured, John had killed him without even thinking. The cleanup had taken longer than it should’ve because he’d bled, but no one would ever find Peter. John had made sure of that.

And now he had a job working for an eccentric billionaire. John ran his shaking hands through his long hair and needed a drink. Frustrated, he went through all the closets, almost surprised when he found two more suits. He took one to the bathroom and started the shower.

When he was clean and dressed – the suit fit fairly well, if a little tight on the shoulders – he felt almost good. Curious now, he went back to the boxes and shuffled through them. A microwave, another clipper set, which he’d use in a minute, a coffee pot, and a bullet proof vest. He blinked, hefted it out of the box, and smiled. It was top of the line, and he was definitely going to need it.

His cell phone rang, and he answered quickly, “Yes?”

“We have a number. I’m doing some preliminary research, and I’ll be at the library in approximately four hours.” Finch paused. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

John didn’t even know what to say. He clicked off instead, knowing he was being a jerk. Finch was giving him things, had even offered a house, and John was intensely uncomfortable with the idea of owning anything. Where would he put it? His mind flashed to the library, and he supposed if he hid a few things among the books, Finch would never find them. Not that John needed anything, because he didn’t, but a Sig Sauer would be nice.

It was time to stop thinking, and John went to cut his hair, making sure every bit of it went into a trash bag that he’d ditch on his way to the library. He ate another sandwich while he came up with a plan. He put the vest on under the black shirt, stowed the coffee pot inside the microwave, and carried just one box out the door. Another taxi, and he walked the rest of the distance to the library, taking extra care that he wasn’t spotted. At least he blended in with a suit. The library was empty, and he was fine with that. Finding a small room not far from the computers, he set up the microwave and coffee pot, clearing away piles of books and other trash. He wasn’t Finch’s errand boy. These were things for him, and he had to sit down and take a few deep breaths. That done, he went back out to buy coffee, filters, and whatever that tea was that Finch had been drinking. He’d recognize it when he smelled it.

***


	4. Chapter 4

Arranging everything so he felt safe took some time, but Harold found a contractor willing to do the work, quietly and discreetly, before taking his family back to India as a very wealthy man. Harold Wren had also managed to clear his desk, so with the information on the number, and feeling somewhat satisfied, he made his way back to the library.

He couldn’t help but wonder if John would be as surly as he had been after he’d eaten a box of donuts, and part of the box. Perhaps, he preferred crullers. The library was a welcome haven after the busyness of the street, and Harold sat down with a small sigh since John was nowhere in sight.

“Mr. Reese?”

Within thirty seconds, John prowled around the corner, and Harold frowned, unable to help himself. “That suit is far too tight across the shoulders.” That simply wouldn’t do. “I never should’ve trusted the CIA with something so simple as your suit measurements.”

John took it off and slung it over his shoulder. “You’re saying I’m not ready for the catwalk?”

“Not today.” Harold had to hide a smile at the pun. He resisted the urge to insist he measure John’s shoulders himself. “The number, here we are, Mr. Reese.” He began the process of taping the information on the board, and John came over to hover, but he didn’t touch.

“The wife put a hit out on him?”

“I’m afraid so.” Harold thought divorce would’ve been cheaper. “This one is very straight forward.” He thought from John’s intensity that he was probably memorizing facts off the board. One look at that scrap of paper, and he’d remembered the address. His CIA file hadn’t been glowing in terms of his intelligence, but they’d been too stupid to realize it was reluctance, nothing more. “Please don’t kill them.”

Now John turned, and his eyebrows were up. “They’re hitmen.”

“I don’t want us to be in the business of killing people, not even bad people.” Harold returned to his chair and the safety of his computers.

“And by us, you mean me.” John shrugged. “I’ll try.” He pointed at Harold rather aggressively. “No promises.”

Harold was a little alarmed by that, but he supposed hiring an assassin was a risk. “I hired a man to fix the restroom to something more livable. Please don’t kill him either.”

“Finch, I don’t normally kill people.” John caught the look Harold shot him. “Okay, so it was my job, but I’m turning over a new leaf.” The smile he put on his face was scarier than a snarl. “Anything else I can do while I’m out?”

The quiet question was a surprising one given this morning’s issue. Harold chose his next words very carefully. “You could stop at my tailor and have him get a proper measurement on your shoulders?”

John had been stuffing a gun in the back of his pants, and he turned. “I’d prefer you do it.”

Going straight to his measuring tape, Harold made sure not to smile. “Of course, Mr. Reese.” He then stopped, tape dangling. “You’re quite a bit taller than I am.”

Pulling over a chair, John sat down. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” Harold was proud his hands only shook a little bit as he took the measurement twice, just to be sure; his hands resting lightly on John’s back. “I’ll have the jackets already delivered returned,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“They’re here, in that closet right off the latrine.” John eased to his feet and put the too-small jacket back on with a shrug. “It’ll be fine for now.” He took a deep breath. “Scared of me?”

Harold put his tape measure away. “You won’t hurt me.” He was sure of that, and fear wasn’t the reason for the slight tremor. Fatigue, mostly, and he went to his chair again, glad to be off his hip. “If you need anything, Mr. Reese, let me know.”

Taking that as a dismissal, with a nod, John was gone down the stairs. Harold re-opened his research into Felines and began to read. It was fascinating, even if much of the evidence seemed anecdotal, and the actual research laughable. Lions were, statistically speaking, the larger population of Felines, though he couldn’t find any reference to black maned lions. He dug through the files of the Center but the only black maned lion was John, who had arrived at the Center at the age of seventeen. The picture of him was almost painful to look at in that he looked terrified. They’d collared him, chained him, and from the records, beaten him fairly regularly because of non-compliance. It was a miracle that John was even sane, much less able to crack a small joke.

They did remark on the size of him, and someone had wanted him for breeding purposes, which almost made Harold dry-heave, but the Army had come calling, and cash was king. John was the perfect Ranger, and it was no surprise that the CIA had purchased him away after 9/11. Harold had to take several deep breaths and promise himself that he wouldn’t set their computers on fire with viruses. No, he’d just give them a worm that would randomly destroy three or four files, so as not to look suspicious. He found the perfect vehicle in the form of a young man who liked to watch porn on his lunch break.

Satisfaction crept over him as the deed was done, and he erased all evidence that he’d ever been there. Finished with that task, he went to get the jackets, unwilling to let that situation wait. There was time to get them to his tailor, if he hurried, and his hip wasn’t happy about it, but he felt better after they were delivered.

“Can I please shoot him a little?” John asked in Harold’s ear.

“No.” Harold returned to the library, but he stopped for takeout along the way. “I hope you like Thai food.”

“Love it.” John’s voice was almost a purr.

“I got enough for four.” Harold was serious. He’d also called in for more steaks to be delivered to the two safe houses that John had visited.

“Finch, you’re making me want to shoot him so I can eat.” John might’ve chuckled. “Here he comes.” And he clicked off.

Harold sat the food down and collapsed in his chair. His hip had gone too far today, and he didn’t see how it was going to get better now that he someone to work the numbers with. If anything, he’d be walking more. He took some ibuprofen with his leftover tea and tried to do the stretches his doctor had recommended. They did help, but he was terrible at doing them regularly.

The food was cooling, and Harold texted his contractor, asking him if installing a freezer would be possible, and it was then that he realized he was making the library a home for John. If this location was ever compromised, John would be very unhappy. With that thought uppermost in his mind, Harold made some notes on a possible second location. It might pay to be even more paranoid than usual.

John came up the stairs like he owned the place, moving with confidence, and Harold could see the lion in him. He stripped off his sunglasses, and Harold was strangely complimented. John felt safe here. His brown, more of an orange really, eyes dilated, and Harold was captivated.

“More frosting?” John smirked a little.

“No.” Harold had to fight his blush. “I was reading about Felines today, and the science is ridiculous. For instance, your eyes? Were they like that when you were born?”

Picking up a bag of Thai with a sniff, John started unloading the containers. “They change when a Feline makes their first Switch.”

“Why?” Harold wanted data and studies, not what passed for science at the Center.

“Well,” John said, pulling up a chair. “From what I understand, some Felines never Switch. It’s genetic, but for some reason, it’s never activated for them.”

Harold blinked several times, thinking. “Perhaps there has to be another gene that must be activated as well.” He took the container John handed him and began to pick at it. The pain was bad enough that he wasn’t that hungry. “Thank you, Mr. Reese, and thank you for answering my intrusive questions.”

John shrugged. “Hey, you bought dinner. Our number is on his way home. I assume to pack a bag.”

“Oh, good.” Harold was a little embarrassed he’d forgotten. “The hitmen?”

“Alive,” John grumbled. It would’ve been so easy to kill them. “Fighting in an elevator, mistakes can happen. I almost had a stress Switch.”

That sounded, not good. “I don’t understand.”

“When a Feline is put under too much stress, we Switch, whether we like it or not. I heard about one guy who doesn’t – they even set him on fire - but it happens. I’ve had a few.”

Harold felt like his eyebrows couldn’t get any higher. “They set him on fire?” He might’ve yelped. After a breath, he lowered his voice. “The car accident out at the bay?”

“Nah. I’ve been in lots of those.” John glanced up from his food. “Don’t worry, Harold. For me, it’s tight quarters. I’m a touch claustrophobic.”

It was the use of his first name that made Harold flinch around the eyes. Of course, John had known, but he hadn’t said it. Harold’s mouth ran away with him. “You’re probably concerned your tail will get stomped on.”

John narrowed his eyes, and then made a snort that was almost a laugh. “Nothing to joke about. It hurts.” But he nearly smiled, hiding it with his napkin. He had plowed his way through most of the food, but he was picking at another box. “I’m full,” he said, soft and low as if he were astonished by it.

“I’m sure another good meal or two and those patches on your fur will heal right up,” Harold said, and then realized he was an idiot. He’d just outed himself as watching him on the cameras.

“I have patches?” John looked confused. “In my fur?”

“Yes,” Harold drawled out the word. “If you don’t eat enough to be healthy, it will show in both forms, right?” He saw the frown on John’s face. “You never eat on the job, but you’re a large carnivore with a tremendous appetite, Mr. Reese. There are bound to be consequences to your health.”

“A hungry lion works for his dinner, or so I was told.” John stared off into space, and Harold started packing up to leave for the day. He’d said too much, and he didn’t want to drive John away. Harold was good at many things, but talking to people wasn’t one of them. John wasn’t looking at him, and Harold got to his feet, only a small groan slipping out. Now, John met Harold’s eyes.

“I’ll call when I get the next number.” Harold made sure he had everything. “I had the safe houses restocked, and I do hope you find a place to sleep well tonight.” He sincerely hoped it wasn’t the air conditioner on the roof. “Lock up if you leave.”

John nodded but said nothing, and Harold limped away, feeling as if he’d escaped with most of his skin intact. He just wasn’t accustomed to actually talking to people.

Being careful, John watched him leave, even trailing after him to make sure he actually did leave. It was a big building, and John wanted to put in a few more safety features, like alarmed locks on the windows. Harold didn’t look back, and John let out a slow breath. He was alone, no one staring, or making sure he didn’t Switch. Since he’d been sold, if there hadn’t been a person with him, there’d been surveillance, and he glanced up at the ceiling; his gut churning.

Every entrance, most hallways, all windows with ground floor access, and even the roof: there were cameras everywhere, and John felt like a complete idiot. Finch was paranoid. Of course, there were cameras – good ones with Wi-Fi so Finch could scan the through the library before he went inside. He hadn’t even bothered to look last night, more interested in eating and sleeping, and he was ashamed.

He wasn’t sure why it bothered him. Most of New York was under surveillance now, and London was a nightmare. It wasn’t as if John was going to do something crazy, but now, he felt like he couldn’t, and he stood for the longest time, staring up at a camera near the latrine.

“Finch, I’m rearranging these cameras. Some of the placements aren’t useful.” John waited for his phone to ring, but after five minutes gave up. Finch wasn’t watching, not right now. Rolling up his sleeves, John got to work, and when he was satisfied that the cameras made them safer without being intrusive, he found a store that was still open and went to buy some better window locks and a few other gadgets. If he swung by the nearest safe house and picked up the steaks, it was nobody’s business.

Window job done, John went back to the main entrance, cluttered with books. One of these days, Finch was going to fall on his ass, and John picked one up. He hefted it, smelling the mold on it, and glanced at the title, ‘Finding Your True Self.’ A self-help guide, and he supposed he could use the help, but it didn’t matter because he’d be dead soon, one way or the other. He was an old Feline. He supposed, though, that he’d rather die free than on some op where he wasn’t even sure who he was killing or why.

Crouching down, John picked up another and another and when the stack was over his head, he went to find a dumpster. He was careful, but the streets were empty in the dark of the night, and when he was done picking up the hallway, he was filthy. Digging out one of his new purchases, he set it up right at the entrance, low to the floor. It was a laser tripwire that would alert his phone if it was set off. Downloading the app took a minute or two, and that was when his phone rang.

“Finch?” John said, trying for innocent.

“Mr. Reese, I appreciate your efforts to make the library secure.”

“But?” John tried not to snap out the word, pretty sure he’d failed.

“The app is a little intrusive, as it tracks the phones that download it, but I’ll fix it. Please install another laser tripwire at that far loading dock that is always dark.” Finch paused. “And Mr. Reese, there is nothing wrong with taking the initiative.” He clicked off.

John glared down at his phone. “How can I say goodbye if he always hangs up?” But it was more about getting the last word. He took another tripwire to that loading dock, setting it up in the best location. He supposed this was the entrance Finch’s contractor would use. John would have to not be in the building while the guy worked. It’d be too easy to growl at him. This was John’s library, and he pulled himself up short. He couldn’t afford to think that way. He didn’t own anything, and he didn’t belong anywhere.

His stomach grumbled, and he had his shirt off before he realized what he was doing. He shouldn’t. He knew that, but he still went to the latrine and stripped out of his clothes. His lion roared over him, and he panted from the force of the Switch. He trotted back to where he’d stashed the steaks, and if he ate a little plastic, it was fine. Stomach full again, he made a quick perimeter, to make sure he was safe, and then he found a spot to sleep.

***


	5. Chapter 5

“I’ll get right on it, Dave.” Harold didn’t have to check to know that Dave had rolled his eyes at him. Dave probably needed to be reassigned.

Harold’s eyes grew wide as he stepped through the partition doorway and spotted John, camped out in the chair across from Harold’s desk, a small, satisfied smirk on his face. John seemed very excited, not realizing, perhaps, that there was no such thing as privacy in a cubicle. Harold was impressed on John’s ability to hunt him down at one of his cover jobs, however, this wasn’t good. He grabbed the skimmer and put it in his briefcase, trying to not even move his lips as he talked softly. Whispers drew attention.

It was very good news about the girl, but Harold would’ve preferred to keep this job. He supposed there were bound to be some changes now that he had a partner. This was one he hadn’t foreseen.

Truth be told, he wasn’t going to miss Dave. He’d take an early lunch and resign. Harold Finch needed to disappear, or perhaps die. His digital footprint was considerable and led right to Grace, even if she didn’t know it. She’d known him under another name, that he’d never used again. He sat back and frowned, now very unsure what Mr. Dillinger had done in Finch’s name. Harold checked the time and finished the database as a matter of pride before gathering into his briefcase anything he cared about and leaving for lunch. Dave frowned at him but said nothing.

No less than three people wanted to know John’s name before Harold could reach the front door. Harold brushed him off as a salesman but no one believed him. To tell the truth, he was a little irritable about it. He’d hidden at IFT for years. It was his business with Nathan, and he hadn’t wanted to say goodbye, but the numbers were more important. He was sure Nathan would agree with him.

Looking down the barrel of a gun brought all of Finch’s musing on priorities to a screeching halt, and they were quickly reordered. Finch flinched full body as John appeared from nowhere and shot the assassin down to the floor. They were safe, and Finch felt as if he couldn’t take a deep breath. John was talking but Finch heard nothing. It was all so far away.

“Harold? We gotta go!”

The world snapped back, and Finch let John help him move at quite a pace until it was time to stroll and look innocent. “John, the first safe house, I believe.”

John twisted back to look at him, a snarl on his face, and in the future, Finch would only use the first name when the situation was dire. They piled into a cab and went together. Finch had never been so glad to see a comfortable chair, and he accepted the bottle of water John brought him gratefully. They ate, but Finch just sat, thinking furiously. Yes, it was time for Harold Finch to die.

“Finch?”

“I was thinking.” Harold took in John’s appearance. “That was a bit of a rough one.”

“He almost had us.” John still had his sunglasses in place, and he nudged them back. “I went through three pair today. We need to find me some contact lenses.”

“I will endeavor to do so.” Harold took a deep breath, glad to be alive, even if he knew it was only a temporary reprieve. “Thank you.”

Ducking his head, John went back to the kitchen and the table with a young girl, wolfing down a sandwich. She smiled up at John, and Harold felt all his doubts about this entire endeavor fall away. This girl would go on to live her life. She was relevant, and Harold called for his car, feeling satisfied. There was so much to do.

“Mr. Reese, I have every confidence that you can handle this from here,” Harold said.

John looked up, mouth full of sandwich. He swallowed. “Back to work?”

“A few things to clear up.” Harold smiled at her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss. Please be safe in the future.”

She looked at John and shrugged, and Harold left them there. His car wasn’t too long of a wait, and he sank back into the seat. “Home, please.”

Locking the door behind him, John couldn’t help a small smile. Finch was going to be good in a fight – John just knew it.

“He okay?”

“He’ll be fine. I think his leg was bothering him.” John got out some more food and sat down to ease the rumbling in his stomach. No library for him tonight. He’d stand guard while she slept, and tomorrow he’d dangle a carrot in front of Carter. She was hot after him, but she’d never catch him. Lionel was going to give John a hand there.

“Do you always wear those sunglasses?”

“Not always, but usually.” John matched her shrug, and as soon as she was done eating, got her into a bed, making sure she couldn’t escape without alerting him. She fell asleep so fast that John stopped worrying. He went to the living room to pace and make plans. After he got her to safety tomorrow, he’d pay Finch another visit at IFT. His phone vibrated, and he growled when he saw the contractor Finch had hired, making his way into the library.

His phone rang, and he touched his earbud. “I promise not to eat him.”

“See that you don’t. Indian cuisine can’t be good for your digestion.” And Finch clicked away. John sat down, stared at his phone, and laughed, smothering it with his hand. Damn Finch, chipping away at John’s carefully constructed composure.

John could practically smell Carter’s frustration when the girl was delivered safely and he was nowhere in sight. Lionel was right. She wouldn’t give up, and she’d turn him over to the CIA without hesitating. Eventually, John would have to deal with it. The thought he could take Finch’s money and identities and run skipped through his mind, but he instantly rejected it. Finch needed help, and John wanted to be the one to do it. And his lion loved the library, not that it mattered.

That task done, John headed to IFT to see what Finch was doing. Maybe they could grab lunch. He could admit his eyes widened when he saw the empty cubicle.

“Harold took a personal day?” he asked a young lady who was lurking nearby.

She straightened up, face furious. “Not that you care, but he was hit by a car yesterday after leaving work!” Her face crumpled, and John fled before he had to hold a crying woman. John’s phone rang right as he exited the building.

“Would you care to get some lunch, Mr. Reese?” Finch’s not-dead voice was in John’s ear.

“I would, but you’re dead,” John said with considerable sarcasm.

Finch rattled off an address about eight blocks from the library, and John started that direction. Before John could confirm or deny that he’d be there, Finch clicked off. Sighing, John got out his cane and practiced being blind. He’d worked hard to gain the skill because his instincts warred with his desire to blend. Of course, a blind person always stood out, but people tended to focus on the disability, nothing else. He put the cane away before he opened the door, and Finch was near the back. The waitress gave him a look and brought the coffee to meet him there, as he slid into the booth seat opposite of Finch.

“You look pretty good for a dead guy.” John sipped his coffee and didn’t bother with a menu, for now. “Sorry I blew your cover.”

Finch put his fork down and wiped his mouth. “Really?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s time-consuming to burn an identity as old as that one, but I suppose it needed to be done.”

Now, John did feel guilty. “If you’d give me some information about yourself, I could avoid making mistakes like that in the future.”

“I’m a very private person.” Finch shook his head slightly. “I know you feel as if you’re working in the dark, but I am as well, at least when it comes to the numbers. I know slightly more information about your life then you do mine, but my life has been incredibly dull.”

“Slightly?” John nearly laughed. He leaned forward. “I don’t even know your name,” he said very softly. “Where you live, what your favorite color is, and whether or not you have a girlfriend: these are all mysteries to me.” He made sure to keep his voice low. “I’m going to screw things up because I don’t have enough information.”

“My name is Harold. I have many homes, forest green, and no.” Finch’s gaze was sharp. “Concentrate on the numbers. Not me.”

John fully intended to snarl out some obscenities but the waitress stepped to their table. She smiled, but it was strained. “Let’s not fight, boys. What can I get you?”

Finch spoke up. “The eggs benedict is excellent, Mr. Reese.”

Forcing his temper away, John leaned back and nodded. “With a side order of bacon, sausage patties and sausage links.” He grinned up at her. “Keep the coffee coming.”

“Sure thing.” She strode away with the ticket, and John went back to his coffee so he didn’t growl. Finch went back to reading a book, occasionally checking his phone, and eating. John was annoyed, so he had to say something.

“No girlfriend, then. Boyfriend?” John used that tone that used to annoy Kara.

Shutting his book, Finch glanced at his phone before raising his eyes to meet John’s sunglasses. “No.” One little word, and he didn’t even snap it. If anything, he just sounded a little sad, and John felt like a jerk. Finch nudged his plate away and wiped his mouth. “You?”

The question took John a little off-guard. His lip curled, but he wasn’t able to say anything. Finch knew about Jessica, and he’d asked that. John followed the thought to its logical conclusion, and either Finch was a bigger jerk than John, or he’d lost someone as well.

John drained his coffee. “Sorry,” he said, and he meant it.

“I am, as well.” Finch sighed. “This partnership is bound to be difficult, as you feel you are at a distinct disadvantage, but let me reassure you.” He leaned forward and spoke barely above a breath. “If the government finds me, I’m dead, and the simple fact of knowing me could get you killed, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t share.”

The waitress came back with plate after plate of food, and John busied himself with helping her while thinking it over. If he were caught, the CIA would kill him, but they wouldn’t bother with anyone else. Finch and his backdoor information was so classified that anyone who knew about it would be put in the ground. They couldn’t be any more than mild acquaintances with a common goal in Finch’s mind, because anything else would be someone else dead on his conscious. John nodded, thanking her for the coffee refill as well.

“Finch, no one is taking me alive.” John made it a promise.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Finch fished out two hundred-dollar bills and tucked them under his plate. “I’ll call.” And he was going for the door. John watched, analyzing the limp and wondering if today was a good day or a bad day for him.

Since Finch had paid for breakfast, John ate it all, every scrap, even the leftovers on Finch’s plate. He also ordered more bacon. The thought that he was going to get fat didn’t even slow him down.

Slowing at each pay phone, Harold made his way to the library, wanting to see how the work was coming in the bathroom, and he’d check on his recent death. Slipping the police report into their database had been no challenge at all. He’d been cremated, easy to fake, and the obituary had been quite nice. No picture, of course, but nice all the same, and Nathan would’ve liked it, as he’d been mentioned.

No pay phones rang, and he noticed the lack of books in the hallway immediately. John must’ve cleaned them up, and Harold appreciated it but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Of course, it did make it easier to walk. Those contact lenses that John spoke of were his second order of business after making sure all the proper death certificates had been filed for Harold Finch.

Feline eyes were completely different than Humans, and Harold doubted contact lenses that concealed them were available wholesale. The FBI and CIA might even be monitoring purchases of that nature.

The darknet provided the answer, but Harold was skeptical that the dealers were reliable. He would have to consult with John because there was no conceivable way one size fit all. The lenses sent Harold down a rabbit hole where he learned that Felines caught impersonating Humans would be euthanized. Horrified, he discovered that there was an active market for Feline organs and bones, not to mention skins, and he had to close it all down.

The bathroom was a complete disaster, and Harold had to walk away from that. Giving his leg a bit of exercise, he paced the main floor to look for cameras, and he supposed he should’ve warned John about them, but he’d assumed they were easy to spot. Perhaps John had been so happy about the steaks, he’d forgotten to look that first night. Harold smiled a tiny bit as he looked over the window locks with satisfaction.

It would never do to underestimate John. He had multiple skill sets and seemed competent at them all. Harold rounded the corner, heading for his computers, and stopped in surprise. “Do you have to do that here, Mr. Reese?”

“People stare when I do it at the park.” John had made himself comfortable at the table, cleaning his obnoxious guns. He never missed a beat with his sarcasm. “Cameras to your liking?”

Harold walked around the table to sit and pulled up all the feeds, flipping through image after image, and finally arranging them in a proper grid pattern. “I was never concerned. No number as of yet, but since you’re here, let’s discuss these contact lenses.”

John pulled his chair closer, bringing a pistol with him that he was rubbing with a fine cloth. Harold knew giving him a sharp look would achieve nothing so he didn’t bother. They went over the basics, and both agreed that asking the CIA to provide them was out of the question.

“There was this time in France, I lost my sunglasses and was exposed as a Feline. There was yelling, screaming, and a SWAT team was sent to capture me. My partner picked me up at the local jail.” John shrugged. “That was a long day.”

That had to be the understatement of the year. Harold shook his head. “Let’s avoid that, if at all possible. I apologize, Mr. Reese, but I must ask a stupid question. Are your eyes the same size in both forms?”

Tilting his head slightly, John frowned. “Not stupid. The eyeball is roughly the same size. When I Switch with the contact lenses in, they aren’t affected, but they’re very annoying.” He went back to cleaning his gun. “I left about ten pair scattered about in safe houses all over Europe.”

“It might be easier to make my own,” Harold mused, flipping through page after page of information on contact lenses. “I already own a biotechnology firm that might just fit the bill.” He glanced up and John instantly dropped his gaze back to his gun. “I’ll have to go into work as Harold Crane. If you like, you can be my bodyguard.”

John actually sighed. “Harold Crane has people for that.” Then he grinned. “Incompetent people. Sounds like fun. Tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.” Harold felt like he had whiplash from John’s mood changes. “Harold Crane does have the resources to own a Feline, if you wanted to go without your usual disguise.”

“Not a good idea. Someone will get a pic and post it to social media, and I’ll be dead not long after.” John had been hiding a long time. That was clear now to Harold, and he’d do his best to help. In some ways, their situations were similar. Harold had started learning how to hide at seventeen, and he liked to think he was very good at it. John eased to his feet – he always seemed to be trying not to scare Harold, which was ridiculous – and started putting his guns away in a black bag. Before long, he disappeared into the library, no doubt to stash them somewhere. Harold started brainstorming how to approach the problem, and he began to think that turning a profit on the contact lenses was the best way to hide their need of them.

A huge lion strolled around the corner and flopped to his side not far from the desk. Harold was proud that he barely twitched, and John seemed asleep within seconds. Letting out a long, slow breath, Harold turned his attention back to work.

***


	6. Chapter 6

The latrine was finished, and John had the irrational desire to mark his territory. He sniffed the door jamb and rubbed his chin against it, unable to help himself.

“I think it turned out rather well.” Finch was close enough to swat at, not that John would dream of doing that. “Let’s go see the other room I had him work on.”

John chuffed and matched his pace to Finch’s limp. Finch could’ve braced himself on John’s back, but John knew that would never happen. The door was slightly ajar, and Finch pushed it open. The big windows had been painted black, and he flipped on the light. John stared at the huge room, full of soft places to lay and bookcases stacked just so, and he took off, making his way to almost the ceiling in a series of jumps.

“I was concerned they wouldn’t hold.” Finch wandered over to a large sofa and sat down, almost gingerly. “The room is sound proof, so you can--.”

Roaring his loudest, John let out years’ worth of noise. Then he dashed down and ran to an exposed beam. He scratched it until he was satisfied, and then the scent of water reached his nose. Behind a big chair, that he intended to shred, there was a good-sized fountain, water trickling over rocks, and he crouched to drink before he really thought about it.

“He was able to put in a freezer,” Finch said, and he didn’t raise his voice, even though John was hidden. “Look in the far corner. It has its own generator. You’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

Leaping, John was there in a flash, and he grinned in his lion way, which he’d been told was terrifying. It was easy to push the freezer lid up with his paws, and he stared down in shock.

“Apparently, buying an entire side of beef isn’t that unusual.” Finch sounded confused by that. “Asking for the bones was, but people do own dogs.”

John grabbed a big bone, still wrapped in its paper and went to where Finch was sitting. Finch gave him a steady look. “Let me unwrap that, Mr. Reese, please.”

Reluctantly, John dropped it in Finch’s palms, and while Finch was taking the paper off, he rubbed his chin on Finch’s knee. It didn’t mean anything, not really, and Finch put the bone, resting in the paper, on the floor. They were face-to-face, and again, John marveled that Finch had no fear.

“You’re welcome.” Finch got to his feet, a little shake in his leg. “I’m unable to stay here today as I have a meeting. I’ll be touch if there’s a number.” He wasn’t lying, but John was concerned at how tired Finch smelt.

John considered Switching and tailing him, but Finch always gave him the slip. Instead, he snatched up his bone and jumped to the highest point to gnaw on it.

“Have a good day, Mr. Reese.” Finch left the door open just a bit as he left, and John listened to him leave before getting serious with his bone. All this, from floor to ceiling, was a lot to take in, and that was before he’d found the freezer full of meat. The way he saw it, he’d done nothing to earn this kindness, and while it was barely possible that Finch was a cat person, it seemed more likely that Finch wanted something. Or he wanted to be sure John wouldn’t take off and abandon him and his numbers.

John liked helping people, even if it meant getting punched in the face pretty regularly. He chewed and thought about it. Lionel would be a good asset to have in their corner, and John hoped that someday he could convince Carter. Right now, she was just chasing the ‘Man in the Suit’ not realizing it was a Feline in a suit. Lionel had told him that his military cut hairstyle was also part of the description, and John grumbled while gnawing because he was going to have to let Finch near him with the clippers. It’d also be smart to have a variety of jackets, not just suit coats.

Getting caught would be a death sentence, and while John had no problem dying in the field, he had no intention of being put to sleep like he was some sort of stray dog. The thought made him snap the bone in half.

Sitting and watching John chew a bone was not a productive use of his time, and Harold was sure that John didn’t want him in his lair. His leg ached more than it should, but a pain pill was out of the question. It wasn’t even nine in the morning. The contact lenses John needed were becoming a small obsession. Harold had spent years making money before he’d thrown his energy into creating the Machine. He knew exactly what he needed to do; he just wasn’t sure he wanted to do it. It might draw unwanted attention to Harold Crane, and he had no desire to burn another identity this month.

Harold had his car meet him in the usual spot, and he went to spend some time as Harold Wren. He supposed his life was less complicated now that Harold Finch was dead. Insurance was a dull business, but he’d spend the time fussing with the damn contact lenses, as he was beginning to think of them.

The cost of the machinery was negligible, but no one made contact lenses that covered the entire eye any longer. He was going to have to get creative, and that always took time and money. The numbers wouldn’t wait, however, and John was at risk every time he went out with nothing but sunglasses to hide his true nature.

“Mr. Wren? Here is the packet for your noon meeting.” She smiled.

“Thank you.” Harold took it from her and scanned through it quickly, not worried in the least. Sitting down to the small meal provided, he was tempted to scroll through the security cameras and check on John, but it felt like a violation of his privacy. John would text if there was an issue. At least, Harold hoped so, and it seemed there were a number of things they still needed to discuss.

“Hello, Harold, congratulations on your promotion!”

Blinking in confusion, Harold stared at her longer than was polite. He forced a smile. “Thank you.” He, perhaps, should’ve read the packet more carefully. More people came to congratulate him, and he hoped he sounded pleased, because he wasn’t. He supposed that people had the right to retire, but this was going to complicate his work with the numbers.

Finally, everyone got settled, he hoped he wasn’t blushing any longer, and the meeting began. His mind skittered around; a promotion meant more work, at least initially until he could make sure he had competent people. Perhaps, he should retire as well, but he balked at the idea.

“And the most important business of the day, Harold Wren is finally getting that corner office he deserves!”

Everyone clapped, and Harold wanted to sink through the floor. He managed to stutter out a few words of thanks, dreading the idea of a new office. And moving. Oh dear. By the time he escaped the room, he wanted to flee the building, but that would be inappropriate. He did take a minute to use the restroom. Making sure his tie was straight, he went out to get organized. This complicated everything.

A noise brought John awake with a start, and to be honest, he was shocked he was in his fur. Taking a look around, it all came back to him, and another noise made him growl. He was down to the floor in a flash, slipping out and towards the stairs. He got low, a roar rumbling in his chest, tail twitching.

“Good evening, Mr. Reese. I apologize for bothering you tonight, but I received a bit of bad news, and I found myself coming here instead of going to an empty house.” Finch went straight to his chair, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and withdrew a bottle of pills. He shook out two, took them with some old tea, and slumped down into his chair.

John roared, not loud, more of a complaint than anything, and tried to look casual as he went closer to the desk. Maybe, he should Switch, but he wasn’t sure. He sat on his haunches and waited.

“It was horrible.” Finch took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I was promoted to president.” He shuddered, smelling distressed. “One of five, but still. The office is huge, ugly, and I have three secretaries to manage. Horrible!”

Smiling like a lion does, John waited for the horrible part, and then realized he’d already heard it. To say he didn’t understand would be an understatement.

“I almost bared my teeth at them like you would.” Finch sighed loudly. “I was perfectly content in my old job. It doesn’t make sense. I’m not that competent! I make sure of it!”

If John’d had his skin on, he would’ve had to hide a smile. It was hell making a convincing cover when it relied on other people to cooperate. Before he knew what he’d done, he put his head on Finch’s knee. Finch stared down at him in amazement and didn’t move even a single muscle. Embarrassment washed over John, and he turned and fled to the safety of his clothes. This was why people hated his lion. He was an idiot in his fur.

Suit on, face blank, John went back to Finch, knowing he’d be yelled at, possibly told to leave. He did have confidence that Finch wouldn’t hit him, and that was something. The desk chair was empty, and he frowned. He’d have heard if Finch had left the building. Opening his mouth, he huffed in a breath and listened. Not even a rustle, so John followed the heaviest scent trail, winding through the extra computer room. It was funny that Finch thought this would keep John away from his precious table.

John eased the door open to his… room, definitely not a playroom, more like a living room, and there was Finch, passed out on the sofa, just slumped over like the meds had kicked in before he had the sense to leave. Something John hadn’t felt in years crept over him, and he shoved it away, but he helped Finch into a comfortable position, tugged off the man’s shoes, and found a blanket to droop over him. Carefully, he removed Finch’s glasses and put them safely away.

He supposed it still couldn’t be comfortable, fully dressed like that, but he already done too much. No Human liked to be handled by a Feline. Finch would wake up and toss John to the curb, and while that wouldn’t be terrible, it wasn’t what… he wanted.

Disgusted with himself, he went to lock up with him on the outside. He’d get some food, maybe head to a safe house, or a bar, maybe a bar. The city was starting to come alive for the night, and he found a place that served food, whiskey, and a quiet booth in the back. No one even looked at him, and that was the way he liked it. The food was good and plenty of it, and if he made the whiskey last, no one would call him on it. Just one, and he was done. His hands shook, and he rolled each drink in his mouth before swallowing.

“You look like a man in love with his whiskey.” The waitress smiled at him. “Want another?”

It took every ounce of will that John had to say no thanks, pay her generously, and slowly eat the double order of French fries so he could suck the ice cubes.

***


	7. Chapter 7

“If I’d have known how many tubes of super glue we’d be going through, I’d have bought the company,” Harold said, striving to push the conversation away from what he considered to be a disastrous number. Certainly, the number had survived, but other people had not, and Harold had been clearly visible on that security camera. John, actually, had no idea how that could complicate things. Multiple covers were Harold’s specialty, but it did take time and money to make them convincing. He could only hope Detective Carter would never take an interest in that particular robbery.

Hope, he’d learned over the years, rarely panned out.

John shrugged, pacing back and forth, hands in his pockets, seemingly lost in thought. He gave Harold a side-eye with his new eyes, blue today. Harold admired the workmanship of them. John wouldn’t have made it through this last number without contact lenses. Those men had been far too dangerous.

“I don’t like it when you’re in the field,” John growled, not stopping his pacing. “You’re not trained, and you have physical liabilities.”

Shocked, Harold wanted to protest vigorously, but the words stuck in his throat. John was right, even if it was rude. “My apologies for being injured.” He hated the words once he heard them. He should’ve cursed, or something, instead of sounding… broken.

Pacing over to him, John pulled a chair close and sat down with a small thump. “Wait.” He rubbed his face. “You did a good job. Saved our asses, but-” He took a deep breath. “I can’t do my job and protect you in that type of situation.”

“I don’t need protecting. Do your job. I’ll muddle through. I always do.” Harold refused to look right at him. This entire conversation was humiliating. “Are we finished, Mr. Reese?” He snapped out the words to push him away.

Ducking his head, John pursed his lips, an expression Harold had seen many times but he still wasn’t sure what it meant. He shook his head. “Tell me what happened to you. Can you run? Can you kick someone in the nuts?”

It was immature to get up and leave, but Harold did just that, limping away from him, hating that it was always worse when he’d sat. He made his way down to the restroom and shut the door firmly. In a minute, he’d face this conversation. If he were lucky, John would go wherever he went when he wasn’t in the library.

Mr. Dillinger hadn’t given one damn about Harold’s injuries, but then again, he hadn’t been a quality individual like John was. Harold patted some water on his face, cleaned his glasses, and tried to look at it from John’s perspective. It was difficult when the conclusion was always that Harold was a liability anywhere other than behind his desk.

John was slouched against the wall when Harold emerged, and he almost fled to the safety of his desk, and then, he decided against it. Trying not to limp like the pain demanded, he went down to John’s room. Harold would never admit that he liked it in there. The sofa was comfortable and the trickle of water was soothing. It did smell a bit… thick, but he supposed old bones would do that.

“Can I get you a steak?” John asked with a laugh in his voice as Harold sat on the sofa, leaned back, and did one of the stretches he’d been taught.

“I like mine medium rare.” Harold concentrated on his foot, not looking at the Feline who was pacing around the room. He didn’t want to talk, but he supposed it was necessary because he wasn’t going to sit it out if John needed help during a number. “I was one of the survivors of a bombing at the ferry here in New York. I had spinal fusion surgery. My abilities are limited, but I don’t usually let that stop me.

He took a breath. “And no, I won’t be kicking anyone.” Harold could only hope he’d said enough. Mr. Dillinger had taught Harold that being private was one thing, but partners had to rely on each other. Harold could only hope – fickle thing – that he had chosen a good one in John.

“I heard about it. Not many lived.” John prowled over and sat down, but not close. “If we need to run, should I carry you?”

Harold raised his eyebrows, not happy at all. “Not if you plan to live to tell the tale.”

And John laughed, a short sound but a true laugh. “Fine. I’ll think of something else.” He paused long enough that Harold wondered if he should get up leave him to his bones. “I’m glad you’re alive, Finch.”

Quiet words, but Harold could hear the sincerity in them. “Thank you, Mr. Reese.” He smirked, desperate to change the subject. “Have you made it to the top in one jump yet?”

“Is that a challenge?” John shot him a quick look.

“Of course not.” Harold eased up, controlling his groan. “I must attend to some of my cover identities before there is a new number, so good night, Mr. Reese.”

John said nothing until Harold was at the door. “Finch, if you need security, call me. Don’t use those losers again.”

Harold could make no promises in that matter, but he’d keep it in mind. He made his way to his computers and packed up to go home. Tonight, he’d sleep in his own bed.

John noticed he received no reassurances as Harold left. Trailing after him, John wanted to ask him to dinner, but it wasn’t a good idea. They weren’t friends. John went and cleaned his room. After that, he checked all the generators and the tanks that ran them. That done, he gathered some items for the dry cleaner and went to do that, not checking his phone. He had time on his hands, and he could admit that he hated it.

Instead of returning to the library, he went to the safe house to make some dinner. Maybe he’d watch television. He didn’t rush, and he kept moving, ignoring the liquor stores. He didn’t need it. His hands didn’t even shake any longer, not much at least. The safe house fridge was well-stocked, again, and he ate a pre-made sandwich while cooking. He was hungry, and now he agreed that staying hungry was foolish. After all, he was a large carnivore, as Finch would say.

Finch had been telling the truth, not a single lie, not so far. John was starting to dislike the pain he smelled on him. And Finch never complained. He kept going and helping. John didn’t understand what drove him, except that he did, and he had the thought that Finch was much braver than John. When John was consumed with guilt, he drank until he passed out. Finch? He tried to find a way to help other people who were in bad situations.

John crashed on the sofa with the TV going, instead of leaving, but he made up his mind to rent his own room – one Finch didn’t know about – tomorrow.

There were things Harold needed to do, but after that conversation with John, he made other choices. He’d probably revealed too much, or maybe not enough, but either way he felt ridiculous. His driver took him home, and he went inside with relief. He hadn’t been home in weeks, and just being surrounded by his favorite books made him feel a little better.

It was early, and he should eat, but he found he had no appetite, deciding to use the whirlpool and perhaps soak some of the ache from his body. He remembered fondly days when he’d not only jogged for miles, but he’d enjoyed it. Now, he was barely able to climb a set of stairs without huffing and puffing.

John thought Harold was weak, and John was making plans to carry him to safety, like a maiden who had swooned.

Harold set his phone down a little harder than necessary, stripping out of his clothes without his usual care. He shut the side door on the whirlpool rather firmly and sat down to sulk in his bubbles, feeling foolish. John was probably eating steaks and clawing at furniture, and Harold couldn’t manage a normal whirlpool.

The hot water did feel nice, and he studiously avoided looking at his scars, like usual. He hadn’t discussed his wretched behavior with John, not yet. Waking up alone in the library, knowing John had taken care of him had been embarrassing enough and the idea of talking about it made him flush. John hadn’t mentioned it, thank heavens, and Harold was even more appalled now that he knew what John thought of him.

Broken. Not good enough to help. Harold scooped up some water and scrubbed at his face. The only thing to do was try harder, do his damn stretches, and maybe someday John would see him handi-capable, instead of a liability. If it didn’t happen, Harold would also be fine. He didn’t need approval. All he needed was success when it came to the numbers.

The aches eased away, and he couldn’t stand his naked body any longer. He emptied the tub and dressed for bed. It was early, but he didn’t care. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, and tomorrow was soon enough to face more of it.

***


	8. Chapter 8

***

“Did you kill Mr. Benton?” Harold didn’t shout the question because he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“He deserved it,” John said, which was an answer that really wasn’t one at all. Harold watched him, hoping his expression would give something away, but John could’ve been carved from stone. This number had pushed him to a very bad place. He met Harold’s eyes. “One of us needs to reassure Dr. Tillman that she’ll never see him again.”

Harold didn’t rush out his answer. “I’m sure you’ll bump into her.” He needed to know something else, and he broke eye contact to look at his computer. “Does she suspect you’re a Feline?”

“Never came up.” John shrugged. “I pass, usually.” He turned away from the desk. “I need to ask you something, and I want the truth.”

Turning from his computer screen, Harold noticed that John didn’t turn to face him. “If I can, I will.”

John made a grumbling noise. “I saw some kids in the park. Are you marketing these contact lenses?”

Completely relieved, Harold almost laughed. “Yes, under the brand name, ‘Cat Eyez.’ With a ‘z’ on the end, which is atrocious grammar, but I didn’t fight it. There are both Human and Feline versions available, but the Human colors don’t sell as well, which is fine because they’re for actual Felines. I hear the Feline colored ones are becoming quite the rage in the 20’s demographic, which, as you know, is highly coveted.”

Now, John turned. He tilted his head, and for a second, looked utterly Feline. “You’re giving us cover?”

“I’m trying.” Harold hoped to create a social storm that would wipe away people’s certainties in their fear of Felines. “The yellow ones are very popular. A percentage of the profits are going to Feline rescue groups around the globe. I fully expect the market will be huge. South Korea is already creating a large demand.” It wasn’t that he was proud, but he certainly wasn’t ashamed of his role in creating them. “Oh, and the Center is furious. They went on FOX news to denounce them. Sales jumped the next day.”

John’s eyes widened, and then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled. Harold could only stare, never having seen what he thought was a real one. John’s smile faded to a grin. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Harold smiled, just a bit. He turned back to his computers. “Director Kinsey also lost track of money he had stashed in several overseas accounts. A real tragedy.” He waited until John was leaving to whisper, “And if I donated the money to a para-military operation that rescues Felines in China, that’s no one else’s business.”

John didn’t slow his step, and he left the library like he had some place to be. After that number, Harold hoped it was a comfortable place with plenty of food. John was still very thin, and Harold hadn’t seen him as a lion in quite a while. With that thought uppermost, Harold went to check the freezer. He cracked open the lid and saw that he’d need to order more soon. At least John was eating it. On the way back, Harold used the restroom and noted that it was sparkling clean. Yes, John was a good roommate, or library mate.

He should’ve stayed, maybe talked some more, but he needed to walk, needed to get away. John hadn’t Switched in a week, and it was scratching at his skin. He was hungry, tired, and he hated that he needed time in his fur. He used to go a month, now he wanted it daily.

It wasn’t right. It was risky. He was in New York City, and he couldn’t take chances. A growl slipped from his mouth, and he found a food vendor, eating quickly. It helped, but he still felt like he wanted to bite someone. He looked up at the fading sunlight and took a deep breath.

“You okay, buddy?”

John didn’t trust himself to answer. He felt like he was going to stress Switch, and he got moving again, not even questioning when his feet took him back to the library. Locking up behind himself, he bolted up the stairs, losing clothes along the way, and barely made it past the top step before his lion blew through him like a tornado.

He couldn’t hear, or see, collapsed in a pile of fur and bones, and suddenly his nose told him that he wasn’t alone. Rolling his head, he tried to breathe. Damn stress Switches. This was his first one in years, and no one had even been shooting at him. They always left him limp and helpless.

“It’s okay, John. It’s okay. I’d call an ambulance, but that’s a horrible idea, so breathe. Just breathe.” The voice was soft, but he heard it, and he latched onto it, trying to find his center again. 

Pushing with his paws, he surged forward and plunked his head right in Harold’s lap. Harold made a noise like a scalded cat, and John wanted to sink through the floor from shame. Before his second breath, Harold had a hand on John’s forehead, and that made everything else fade away.

“Breathe. You’re okay. I promise, and I rarely lie.” Harold smelled so good. “Considering you’re skinny as an alley cat, your head is remarkably heavy.” He stroked his hand across John’s brow, and John needed to run away. He did. He had to run, but instead, he yowled a little, like a kitten.

His eyes hurt, and he blinked blearily up at Harold, wanting things he wasn’t allowed to have, like a friend, someone to help, maybe someone to love. Harold made a tsk tsk noise. “Those contact lenses must ache. If you’ll hold still, I’ll get them out.”

John widened his eyes and tried not to think about someone else’s fingers in them. Two quick tugs, and they were gone, and he rubbed his chin on Harold’s thigh.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Reese. Can you stand? Are you okay?” Harold didn’t try to get up himself. He just kept stroking him, and then lightly scratching behind John’s ears. John wanted to reassure him, so he rubbed into him. Harold laughed, a very quiet sound. “I’m convinced you’re fine. I apologize if something I did caused this.”

Snorting, John eased away, just a little, and he saw that Harold probably couldn’t get up, not with his legs that way. Harold’s hand trailed down John’s mane, snagging tangles. “I could buy a brush, Mr. Reese.”

Surging up to wobbly paws, John ducked his head right onto Harold’s chest and grunted. Harold didn’t move. He leaned into John’s big head. “I can’t get up,” he said in a voice so soft it tore a little at John’s heart. “I’m afraid I went down too fast when I saw you fall over.”

John nudged at him again, gently. Harold pulled back enough to stare into John’s eyes. “Slide a chair over here, and I’ll figure out a way to manage.”

John only staggered a little as he pushed one of the sturdy, wooden chairs to him, before tucking his big head against him again. Harold put an arm back on the chair, and John saw his opportunity to shove his head under and lift him right up. A horrible groan forced its way from Harold’s mouth, but he made it into the chair. He was panting like he’d run a block, and John put his head in Harold’s lap.

“Thank you, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, resting his hand on John’s head. “Let’s rest a minute before we go anywhere.”

It was a good plan, and John did nothing but sit. Harold sighed. “I see now why a stress Switch – assuming that’s what that was – is horrible when you’re working.”

Nodding a little, John shut his eyes and fought to get his brain under control. Curling up in Harold’s lap wasn’t possible, and Switching back to his skin didn’t feel like an option. Harold gave him a tiny tug on the ear. “Let’s stagger down to your room. I need the comfort of the sofa.”

It was a good idea, and John was steady on his paws now. It hurt him to see Harold nearly dragging his leg. John bumped Harold’s hand until Harold got the idea to lean on him. “You’re much softer than a cane,” Harold said with a laugh in his voice. They made it, and they both gave a sigh of relief. John sprawled, paws dangling off the side, and he was careful not to put any body parts on Harold, who was obviously in pain. Harold sat with his back against the cushions, eyes closed, and doing nothing but breathing for longer than John liked.

Worried, John padded over to his stash of bottled waters and brought one to him, putting it in his lap. Harold’s eyes popped open. “Oh, thank you.” He took several sips. “Don’t worry, Mr. Reese, I didn’t further injure my already broken body.”

He sounded as if it were no big deal, and John hated that he couldn’t help. John wandered over to his latest bone, snatched it up, and went to gnaw on it near Harold’s feet. When he was in his skin, he would tell Harold to ignore stress Switches in the future. They were going to happen, and Harold couldn’t hurt himself worrying about them. Harold began to do some slow stretches with his leg, and John sat up to watch, interested.

“I was in physical therapy for some time, and I know the stretches to do, but I am terrible at remembering to do them!” Harold let out a small gasp of pain, but he continued, “You were injured a number of times. How did it go for you?”

John tossed his head and snapped his teeth. He’d hated every minute of it, and at least once they’d threatened to euthanize him instead of spending money on medications. He swatted his bone against a far wall and paced, swinging his head in frustration.

Decision made, he Switched to his skin and strode from the room, going to Harold’s desk. There were three types of painkillers, and John figured Harold could use them all. John took them back, put them down on the sofa next to him, and before Harold could insist on pants, Switched back to his fur.

It was a relief, and he had to face the fact that sometimes he needed his fur now. Something had changed. His life had changed. He had plenty of food, and there was this place; he felt safe here.

“You should eat. Switches require a tremendous amount of energy.” Harold took a painkiller without arguing about it. “I suppose I can sleep here again tonight, if you don’t mind, Mr. Reese.”

Making a show of nodding, John jumped back up on the sofa and was almost close enough to touch him. Harold treated him like… a person, even when he was in his fur, and while John didn’t understand, he liked it. He liked Harold, even when he was particular about things, such as guns and grenades.

“I promise not to use you as a pillow.” Harold slowly, giving John a chance to run, reached out and patted him on the head. “Does this mean you’ll let me cut your hair from now on?”

Putting his paws over his eyes, John sighed.

***


	9. Chapter 9

**

She treated him like a thing. A thing to be used, and he didn’t care how pretty she was, or how good she smelled. Her voice crackled with disdain, mistrust, and beyond her perfume, he could smell her fierce determination. He schooled his face to blankness, giving her nothing of him. She didn’t seem to notice or care. He was just the driver, and he helped her out of the car.

“Now, we just have to figure out who’d want to take her out,” Harold said, walking up to John’s side, practically from the bushes.

John curled his lip, just a little. “Who wouldn’t?” He figured there was a line to kill this woman.

Harold smelled surprised. “Please wait until we’re finished with her number before asking her to dinner.”

Now, John was surprised. “I’ll wait a lot longer than that.” But he’d do his best to save her. She was trying to make a living in a hard profession. “I gotta eat, before she runs off to do something else dangerous.”

“Why don’t you pick up Chinese from that place, Mr. Reese?” Harold said, not giving him another look, and they parted like strangers, but John knew ‘that place.’ It sounded good, and while they ate, they went over surveillance and spit-balled ideas on who exactly could be after her. There were far too many choices. When the food was gone, and the trash thrown away, Harold turned to him. “You should Switch now, while you have a chance. I’ll keep watch.”

“You just want to cut my hair,” John grumbled, but he went to do it. They’d worked together, using data – or what Harold called anecdotal evidence - from the Center, and come up with a system. The numbers did their best to interfere, but he didn’t try to avoid his lion any longer. He didn’t push it down or starve himself. He ate more than enough, and he made the Switch once a day, even if it was just for a few hours.

He was an old Feline, and for the first time, he was happy. It scared him a little. Bad things were bound to happen.

Harold used his money like a weapon, destroying the pharmaceutical company, without a tinge of guilt. He was going to avenge this one number, no matter how much money it took. John seemed to understand, and when Harold was able to put her picture down in front of her killer, it was almost euphoric. Zoe Morgan was safe, and the rest of them were going to be broke and in jail.

“Good job, Finch,” John said in Harold’s ear.

“You as well, Mr. Reese.” Harold used his driver to get back near the library, and he went inside to start the cleanup. John had Miss Morgan well in hand. The sun went down, and the library felt like a bastion of hope. Harold knew he was being ridiculous, but tonight was a good night. They’d fought, and they’d won. The guilt and pain of loss receded a little, and he was almost… happy.

It had to be a sign of bad things to come.

Something was off with this number. John didn’t know what, but it niggled at him, and he noticed he was breathing through his mouth, trying for a scent. The blood drowned a lot of it out, and they kept moving through the apartment building. He knew Finch was doing what he could on his end. They just had to stay ahead of the Russians, and the Bulgarians, one step at a time. The school teacher did his best to keep up, and John used all his tricks to save him again and again.

Wishing for Finch in his ear did no good, and John kept the number talking, trying to understand why his instincts were yelling at him that none of this was right. Hunger began to tug at him, and his lion rumbled in the back of his mind.

Staying alive was something John was very good at, and he forced himself to concentrate on that and nothing else, but he watched. He never let his guard down, not even when Burton seemed helpless. The blood was masking something, and he’d been betrayed too many times to expect anything else.

Harold wouldn’t betray him, and the certainty behind that was a little frightening. Getting to the boat was a relief, and he almost relaxed, but the wind blew towards them and John could smell it. He could smell the lies and the dirty perspiration of panic on a cheap dress shirt. The Russian started yapping about how dumb John was, and that was nothing new.

Burton’s hand went for his waistband, slow, easy, like John wouldn’t notice over all the talk, and the Russian laughed at him. Time seemed to slow way down, each moment hanging in the air, and John had to choose as he stepped forward.

“Don’t make me shoot you, John,” Burton said.

John lowered his head, angry at himself. The gunshot was loud, and the Russian sobbed as the bullet ripped through his knee, screaming in pain, passing out. The pieces came together, and Burton was Elias, who looked awfully smug with his little gun.

“Drop your gun, John, and kick it to me.”

John dropped it, kicking it back, and in the moment that Elias leaned over, it was done. The CIA had trained both John the man and John the lion. And John the lion was not happy. The instant Elias bent over, John Switched, hitting Elias full-body, rearing up with him. The gun went off, pinging against the boat. Pulling on his skin, John saw the astonishment on Elias’ face as he hit the water. He churned under, came up, fighting the water, and John leaned against the rail, not even considering the life buoy hanging next to him.

Switching in his clothes was always a disaster, and he did his best to cover all his important parts. He put his shoes back on and sighed. Harold was always so disappointed when they couldn’t save the number, even if the person didn’t deserve to live. 

The Russian took another screaming breath, and John went to him, letting him down to the deck and applying pressure to the wound. When he passed out again, it was a relief. When the boat docked, John left him, striding up the gangplank, relieved to see Harold.

“John?” Harold looked tentative, next to Fusco, who just looked pissed, blood on his face.

“He’s on the deck. He needs an ambulance.”

Fusco snarled at both of them, but he went to get him. Harold’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t know we could trust Detective Fusco.”

“To a point, yes.” John had to keep moving, or he was going to lie down in the grass and sleep for a few hours. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Harold kept up with him, and there was a car. “Elias?”

“We were on a boat. Accidents happen.” John let Harold drive. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes.

Harold only stared at him a moment before pulling into traffic. It was a miracle John had survived the day. No, it was John. He was incredible, and anyone who underestimated him, did so at their own peril. Harold made up his mind to never ask for details about what happened to Elias. He didn’t need to know everything. John didn’t open his eyes, but Harold heard his stomach rumble. It was almost funny.

“Watch the road, Harold.”

“Just considering whether we need to stop at my tailors or a deli.” Harold didn’t see a single button remaining on John’s shirt. John’s stomach made the decision, and Harold was in and out quickly. John fell on the food like a…starving… Harold stopped watching. He got them moving again and decided on one of his hotels. John was half-asleep when Harold got him out of the car near his private elevator in the underground garage. It went straight to the penthouse, and Harold tugged him inside.

“Shower, then sleep.”

John grumbled, clothes started dropping off, and before Harold could say anything, a large lion tromped to the king-sized bed at the far end of the suite. About three seconds later, John was sprawled, asleep. Since John was asleep, Harold took a good look at him, staring in a way that he never could when he was awake. John had gained weight, no longer just a jumbled mess of ragged fur and bones. His mane was black with a few stray shots of silver, and it extended far under his belly. The patches on his fur were gone, and he was almost glossy. Harold remembered very well the softness under his hand. John could still use a good brushing, but he’d never allow that. He slowly rolled to his back, paws dangling in the air, and Harold raised his phone to take a picture. He’d feel guilty later when he used it as his screen saver.

Turning, Harold picked up John’s destroyed clothes and stared down at them for a moment. The question of whether John had Switched would keep until later, but the evidence pointed that direction. With that thought uppermost, he went to the other end of the suite, getting a dry cleaning bag and putting the clothes in it. The shirt might be salvageable. He put the bag near the door to take with them.

Far from the bed, there was a workstation, and Harold went there, unable to settle, worried about all the possibilities. While the computer turned on, he made a phone call.

“Detective Fusco, I was just calling to check on you.”

Without missing a beat, Fusco started complaining. “The case is a shit show. Our witness is missing, since he was really Elias, the Russian with the destroyed knee claims a lion was on the boat and ate Elias, and my head is killing me. Carter wants me fired, and I’m thinking of giving her your phone number.”

Harold had gone completely still halfway through the rundown. “A lion.” He was careful not to phrase it like a question.

“The guy is nuts, but he’s clear on the part where Elias shot him. So where is Elias?”

“They were on a boat. Accidents happen.” Harold used John’s words intentionally. There was a long pause.

“You’re telling me Wonder Boy took care of business.” Fusco wasn’t asking a question, and his voice was hushed as if he’d moved somewhere more private. “Did he see a lion?” And Fusco laughed.

“I’ll send over a bottle of Tylenol,” Harold said, and he disconnected. John had Switched on the boat, and Carter was better at connecting dots of information than anyone Harold had ever met. He might have to make arrangements to throw her off the scent. If the pilot of the boat had seen John Switch, well, it would be bad. Harold would have to follow the investigation very closely, and he went to work to find out if there were any surveillance cameras that could be a problem.

The hours passed, and Harold ordered several meals to be brought up after John lurched to his paws, grumbling like he would, and then flopped back over to snuffle into the pillows. Harold grabbed hold of every ounce of courage he had and went to the bed, almost close enough to touch. John raised his head, shook his mane twice, and a big paw snagged the hem of Harold’s suit coat. Harold sat down quickly before his coat was ripped off, and John nudged his big head against him.

“My tailor won’t be happy with you,” Harold muttered, but he rubbed John between the ears. “Are you well, Mr. Reese?”

John yawned, showing off his impressive teeth, and Harold took that as an affirmative. He scratched behind John’s ear and used his other hand to tug out snarls in John’s mane. “I’m buying a brush.” And he tried not to smile at the indignant yowl. “I checked very closely. There’s no video footage of you Switching on that boat, but the Russian is telling everyone a lion ate Elias.”

Lips pulled back off sharp teeth, and John sighed. Harold nodded. “People are stupid. I agree. Fusco wants to know if you saw a lion. He thought it was hilarious.” He tapped John on the nose. “You didn’t eat him, right?”

Licking Harold’s hand, John curled up and to all appearances went back to sleep. Harold chuckled and went to wash his hands. John was so… handsome. Harold would never have the courage to touch him uninvited, even in his Human form. It was very easy to understand why people wanted to own a Feline, show them off, and Harold hated himself for that.

The smell of food brought John fully awake, and he bolted for it before remembering that he was in his fur, so he might’ve plowed off the bed into the floor, just a little.

“Switch. I insist.” Harold was taking plates off a cart and setting a table. “I had some clothes delivered, and they’re in the bathroom. Go.”

It’d be rude to roar, but John let out a small one and scooted that direction. His lion was always an idiot. Once he was in his skin, John realized how filthy he was and took a military shower. Clean but shaggy, he dressed in the casual clothes and went for the food. Harold looked him over and nodded in approval. John put his napkin in his lap with a look that dared Harold to say anything about manners.

“My apologies, but the first course is salad.” Harold played server, and he made sure John’s plate was full. “I have a good whiskey, if you’d like a drink.”

“Please.” John deserved one after that number. He took an immediate sip, agreeing that it was a good bottle of booze. “Where am I?” he asked in a mild tone of voice, not worried, but curious.

“The penthouse in one of my hotels. Private elevator. Harold Crane is a tad eccentric, but he does have the occasional guest.” Harold had his own glass of whiskey in hand. “No new number yet.”

“Good.” John needed at least a few hours to process the last one. “Crane has guests? Tell me more.”

“A gentleman never tells.” Harold smirked and began to eat. John cleaned his plate and was glad when Harold dished up more of everything, adding something new. It was strange to sit across a nice table and eat with him. This wasn’t like take-out at the desk. This felt… different. Harold was the perfect host, and John considered making for the door. Harold raised his eyebrows. “Is everything all right, Mr. Reese?”

The truth came roaring out of him in a voice that held a tremble, and he was ashamed before the last word left his lips. “Is this a date? Did you bring me here for sex?”

Harold went completely still, fork in mid-air. His hand trembled, and he dropped his fork.

John was unable to stop his damn mouth. “You should be beating me with bamboo for the mess I made of that number! Not pampering me with good food and a bed made for sex!”

“I brought you here because you were exhausted, and it’s safe here.” Harold shoved his chair back. “Finish eating. I’ll call you when there’s a number.” He stopped for his overcoat and left without looking back, but he didn’t slam the door.

Chasing after him was John’s first impulse, but he shoved it down. Roaring wasn’t near as satisfying in his skin but he indulged. Harold had been nothing but kind, even his sarcasm was just funny, not cruel, and none of it made sense. John had screwed it up. He had killed a man, something Harold hated, and there hadn’t been a word of condemnation. Maybe he’d been saving it for after the dessert, but John doubted it.

Harold hadn’t even had the sense to be scared. John remembered the trembling hand, and all he’d smelled was surprise, mixed with… he thought it through, and decided maybe… horror? Shit, shit, shit, he was an idiot. He got to his feet and threw his whiskey at the door in frustration.

The elevator door couldn’t open quick enough, and Harold pushed the descend button four times when once would’ve been sufficient. The door shut, he took a breath, and he heard something slam inside the suite. He wasn’t frightened, but he had certainly made the right decision by leaving. John thought Harold was trying to manipulate him into sex. The very idea made Harold’s skin crawl. Next time, John could sleep in the car and wake to a bag of burgers on the seat.

Stepping out into the parking garage, Harold realized he’d left his keys up there, but he wasn’t returning for them. He called for his car and waited impatiently, keeping an eye on his phone. Texting John about the keys seemed foolish but Harold did it anyway, keeping it short and to the point that John should use the car. Right now, Harold didn’t care if John put the car in the river.

His limousine arrived, and he sank into the back seat gratefully. “Home.” One easy word that carried a sting with it. It was nothing but a dusty place with some books. The sun was set by the time Harold limped up his front stoop, and he was tired. He was a foolish old man, thinking he could have a friend, someone to… he slumped down onto his sofa and rubbed his face. His loneliness didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the numbers, and he couldn’t lose sight of that because he wanted to brush John’s mane and discuss why he was reading about titanium.

Tomorrow, Harold would go to the park for his Sencha tea, stare at Grace’s house for a few moments, and remember why he couldn’t have people in his life. If he were lucky, she’d come outside, and if he were unlucky, he’d see her kiss her husband goodbye. She was happy, and he was glad, but it hurt. That hurt would be a very good reminder that he wasn’t allowed friends, or anyone for that matter.

It was only after he’d dressed for bed that he remembered John’s words about being beaten with bamboo. Anger rushed through him, and he would channel his anger into something productive in the morning, something the CIA wouldn’t like at all.

***


	10. Chapter 10

***

Drinking never solved anything, but it was better than thinking, and John downed two shots in a row, hand twitching toward the other four.

“Hey! Cool eyes! I saw those on Instagram!” The guy clapped John on the back. “I thought they were for kids, but you totally pull it off!” he yelled over the music. “I’m getting some too!” He staggered off, and John met his own gaze in the mirror over the bar, horror slipping through him as his orange eyes stared back at him. He had never, in his adult life, forgotten to hide. The only reason he wasn’t being arrested was because Harold had given him an out, given him cover, and John was ashamed.

Casually, he abandoned the shots and made for the door, making it with no trouble, and he slipped away into the Manhattan night. He was in shock, unable to think clearly, only knowing that he had to run. He’d been upset, worried he’d be fired, and he’d forgotten the first rule of survival for a Feline. Hide.

And Harold had saved him again. The man he’d yelled at, almost accusing him of a horrible thing, and then had an emotional meltdown in front of – and John burrowed into his jacket. If it were possible, he’d buy a bus ticket and get out of town. Maybe go out west, somewhere far away, but he couldn’t do that.

His phone clicked in Fusco’s pattern, and he answered reluctantly. “Lionel.”

“Did you see a lion on that boat?” Fusco laughed. “Since you’re the only survivor, I could use your first-hand account.”

John stopped walking, finding a shadow to get inside. “What are you talking about?” he growled.

“Easy, big fella. The Russian? Lazlo? He’s dead, and so is his father. In fact, someone went on a killing spree.” Fusco wasn’t laughing now. “It’s not a good day to be Russian in New York.”

“It wasn’t me.” John kept his voice light.

“We picked up some surveillance video at one of his hits. It’s a guy with a scar coming down off his eye. Wanted to give you a warning. Just in case.”

“I’m touched, Lionel.” John actually was a little surprised. They weren’t friends. “I’m sure Carter will catch him.”

Lionel laughed again. “She’s on a tear. Keep your head down.”

John hung up on him. If Carter took Lazlo seriously, well, she might finally catch on that she was after a Feline in a suit. That wouldn’t be a good thing. On the move again, he went to his favorite safe house for the night. He’d eat again and stop hiding in whiskey. He had to think.

When the pain from his hip woke him up, Harold started his day. Occasionally, he read a book and tried to rest, but that wouldn’t be possible today. His stomach churned, and he skipped breakfast, simply dressing and gathering his things before starting for the park. The walk did nothing to clear his mind, but the exercise was good for him. With his tea in hand, he dared a long look at her house, going to sit on a bench. He’d do a few stretches while he hid and hoped.

She didn’t appear, and when the other end of the bench was claimed, Harold gave up.

“She’s not around today?”

Harold didn’t look at him. “We have a number.” He started for the library, considering a cab.

“I have a car. This way.” John took the lead, barely, measuring his steps to Harold’s. “It’s chilly this morning.”

Words stuck in his throat, but he walked, and some days that was victory all by itself, not that he’d ever speak of it. John had a coffee in the car, and Harold found something to say. “You followed me?”

“I came to get your favorite tea.” John got them moving into traffic, cranking the heat.

Something had to be said, and Harold searched for the right words, coming up with nothing but the usual. “I’m a very private person.” He knew, of course, that John followed him on occasion, but he’d never understood why. “A boring person.”

“I tracked your tea habit here because I’d hoped to find out where you live. One morning, there you were on that bench, with your tea, and nothing but stars in your eyes for the woman coming out of the house, right across the street. I left.” John at least did him the courtesy of not looking at him. “Later, I figured out that Harold Crane has dozens of properties. You might have one you prefer, or you might not. I stopped looking.”

“She’s married, happy, and I’m glad.” Harold had difficulty even sharing that much. “When the government finally comes for me, I’d appreciate it if you could make sure of their safety.” The last words were no more than a whisper. He’d told John more than he’d ever told anyone, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why.

A rumbling growl filled the car, and John whipped the car over into a parking space. “Last night, I forgot my contact lenses. I went to a bar to get drunk, and I forgot them.”

“I’m not sure why you had to go to a bar. That bottle of whiskey I bought would’ve done the job.” Harold wasn’t sure where to look, and a part of him wanted to get out, hobble away.

“I forgot! And some guy clapped me on the shoulder and said my eyes looked great, said he was going to buy a pair as well.” John seemed to be rushing out the words. “He didn’t even consider I could be a Feline.”

“I’m glad they worked,” Harold said, deciding to give everyone on the project a bonus. “The second generation is coming out soon, lighter, more comfortable.” He was so very glad the conversation had steered away from his life to John’s.

“You saved my life. Again.” John shook his head in a very Feline movement. “If something happens to you, I’ll make sure she’s safe, and then I’ll kill them all.”

“That seems overly dramatic, but I suppose I won’t be around to complain about it.” Harold got out of the car, careful of the curb, and started for the library. When John caught up, Harold glanced at him. “Did you steal that car?”

“Yes.” John smirked a little. “Keeping my skills up. That make and model requires a gentle touch.”

“I should invent a computer program that shuts everything down if the proper key isn’t put in the ignition.” Harold smiled at John’s short glare. “I’m sure someone’s working on it.”

“I hope not,” John grumbled, going into agent mode and making sure it was safe for them to go inside. Harold noticed John took several deep breaths through his mouth before he said, “It’s clear.”

Not questioning it, Harold took his tea to his desk and started the process. When he found the person, he printed the picture and went to tape it on the glass. John had disappeared into the back of the library as soon as they’d cleared the gate, so Harold kept digging, finding bits and pieces of a life that needed their help.

“Oh, dear.” Harold said, finding the footage on the local morning show. “John! We need to go now!”

John pulled his head from the freezer at Harold’s call. He was almost out of sirloins, but it could wait. He double-timed it back to the desk, worried because Harold had never sounded so urgent. John took in the glass, spotted the little pointed ears, and turned to him, smelling his distress. 

“Feline?”

“The boy’s name is Alec Janson. He Switched at school this morning. He’s being held at the local precinct in the Bronx. The Center for Feline Control is in route.” Harold was putting his coat back on. “I’m going to his parents. We need to discover their intentions.”

Pushing back a number of books, John pulled a duffle bag out, making sure it was the right one. “They’ll send a three-man team. Mercs.” He yanked off his suit coat and went to grab his leather coat. “I’ll get him.”

“The press may be at the police station.” Harold was already halfway to the door. “Be careful.”

“And don’t assume his parents want him. They may be happy about this.” John was right behind Harold, locking up. “Do you have a safer safe house? Nothing on a street.”

“I’ll text you an address, but it won’t be in New York proper.” Harold went right and John went left. All the information Harold had on the boy began appearing on John’s phone, and John had never moved faster. He had to patient, watch, use his badge and figure out the weak point for extraction. He’d done it dozens of times before, and he was good at it, but he wanted to Switch and let his lion do the talking to all these idiots.

The parent’s address was easy enough to find, and while the media had left, they were clearly under siege by nosy neighbors and less-than-helpful relatives. Harold cut through them all, but he pulled up short when what appeared to be a prayer circle widened just enough to include him.

“Lord, forgive us for our sins. We call on you to help this family in its time of need.”

Harold kept his face still, but he wanted to shout at them. The man leading the prayer continued, “Our son is an abomination, but he will be cleansed from our life and the lives of our community.”

“Amen,” everyone intoned, and Harold tried to catch the gaze of the child’s mother. She’d been crying, face white as a sheet, but she was nodding along.

“He’s your son, for God’s sake!” Harold was never good at keeping his mouth shut.

The group erupted, and he found himself being escorted to the curb by a large, sweaty woman who screamed in his face about God and perversion. Harold felt like he’d been hit by a bus, just stunned and unable to think.

Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him further away. “Don’t even try. That boy was always different, and now they have the reason to scream about, instead of trying to beat an answer out of him.”

Shaking off the grabbing hand, Harold met the eyes of a middle-aged man, blond hair, and tall like John. “Harold Crow. I work for a Feline rescue group.”

“Sam Janson.” The guy nodded. “I read about you guys on the Internet, doing good things.” He steered Harold further from the house. “I’m the boy’s uncle, moved here six months ago. I’ve tried to help, but…”

“They’re his parents.” Harold knew all the reasons. He threw caution to the wind, glad he was near his car as he might need it. “We’re going to get him back.”

“Well,” Sam hesitated, stepping very close, “Don’t bring him here. They’d just hurt him. Believe me, please.”

“For some reason, I do.” Harold was skeptical, but as he looked at Mr. Janson, the decision to believe him further cemented. There was something about him, something familiar. “I have to go help, somehow. The boy is only ten.”

“He’s mature for his age. Get him some place safe.” Sam pulled a business card out of his pocket and shoved it in Harold’s hand. “Call me. I’ll come.”

“Sam!”

Harold turned and saw the father, bearing down on them both, and he made haste to his car and fled the scene, able to hear the screaming for a good block. People always surprised him, whether with good or evil. He clicked his ear bud. “John?”

“A little busy, Harold.”

“His parents are religious fanatics. He may be brainwashed as well. Take no chances.” And Harold clicked off. He drove a short distance and pulled over to check the news feeds. Picking up a Feline in New York was rare enough that it was going nationwide, and he watched carefully to see how public sentiment was running. Dissatisfied, he inserted a report on how much Feline bones and skins sold for on the black market and watched it spin viral. That done, he began a background check on the uncle, not trusting was a key to survival.

“Harold, I’ll need the blue duffle bag from the library for picking locks.” John sounded calm.

“I’ll meet you at the safe house. Make sure to steal an appropriate vehicle for being at the docks. We don’t want to stand out on surveillance.”

“Trust me, Harold.”

Before Harold could reply that he did, John clicked off, and the irony of that struck home. Harold trusted him, and that was no small thing. Survival for both of them was his priority now, and he’d be twice as paranoid. It was only when he got back to the library that he realized he had no idea they had a lock pick kit. “Mr. Reese, I was unaware that we had a lock pick kit.”

A gun shot made Harold flinch, and he began searching the books. He came up with nothing and he hurried to John’s living room.

“Under the microwave!” And the sound of fists hitting flesh came through as Harold doubled back, grabbing it and going back to the street. He took his car to a garage, switched into a nondescript Ford Explorer, and worried there was more he could be doing. He spent several minutes checking police bands but there was no panic there. The Internet was on fire, and he threw some gasoline on it by posting a picture he’d picked up over at the Center – a young Feline, being beaten with long rods while chained. He could admit that it was shocking, made more so because the young snow leopard was cowering in fear, no aggression at all.

“Harold.”

“Coming!” Harold was going to pay for all this running about in pain, but right now, he had to get there as quickly as possible. He might have run a yellow light, but he was careful not to draw attention. The warehouse seemed too far away, but he made it, pulling up close to the keypad and putting in the code that he’d sent John earlier. The gates opened, and he took his vehicle right inside the building, making sure every door locked behind him. There was a pickup truck there too, but before he could open his door, John wrenched it open, gun up.

“It’s me,” Harold said very unnecessarily. He’d forgotten his tinted windows. “I have it.” He reached and handed the bag to him, noting the bruises on John’s face. “Let’s get further into the building.”

“Not until I have him unchained,” John growled, and Harold could see that his partner was hanging onto his skin by a thread.

“Breathe. Don’t Switch.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” John roared at him, striding away, and Harold decided instead of arguing, he’d go open the part of the warehouse that could provide some comfort to the boy. He limped to the far end of the building, went into an office that had another keypad, and turned on the elevator. As it descended, he booted up the surveillance system and made sure there was no one anywhere near the warehouse. 

Glancing at his phone, Harold needed to get downstairs to his computers to go through the uncle’s history. He set the exterior alarms to alert his phone, stepped out of the office, and stared as a rather small and scrawny cheetah ran past him. John, in his fur, wasn’t too far behind, and since his shirt was hanging on him by bare threads, Harold wrote that suit off. 

Going to the elevator, Finch opened the door and held it open with the button. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Reese!”

John played shepherd, getting the young cheetah headed the right direction and then bullying him into the elevator. Making sure their tails were safe, John rubbed his cheek on Harold, just in case Alec took a sniff. Alec’s eyes were still wide and scared, and John licked him on the head several times. He seemed like a nice kid. It was a shame he’d Switched at school. Otherwise, he might’ve been able to hide.

The elevator went down, not up, and it opened into a spacious, open style apartment. The lights came on, and Harold was the last one out. John noticed the elevator went back up, and he wasn’t complaining, but he preferred a safe house with two exits.

“Let’s get you two some food,” Harold said, moving away from them. Alec chirped and yowled, and John moved to comfort him. This place smelled dusty and had a little Harold scent. John trailed Harold to the kitchen and apologized for yelling at him by nudging him with his head, gently.

“Yes, we’re fine. Stressful day. I was almost beaten to a pulp by a bible thumper.” Harold gave him a small pat between the ears. “Cooked? Or raw?”

Making a move for the meat, John snorted when Harold’s hand blocked him. “I’m removing the plastic. You eat far too much of it.”

Alec rubbed full body against John and squeaked like a kitten, purring and making paws. John almost wished he could purr, and he grumbled his best when Harold put a tray of chopped meat on the floor. Alec pounced, and John let him go first. A big bowl was put down full of water, and John made sure it wasn’t tipped over. The kit was enthusiastic but still clumsy in his fur.

Harold left them to the food, and John heard the whine of computers being turned on. It was comforting. It meant Harold had a plan, and they needed one. Keeping Alec safe would require some work. John ate what Alec didn’t, finishing up the water as well, and he felt better. The kit bolted away, and John followed him to a huge bed in a back corner. John jumped up and rumbled, and Alec bounded up to maul him. Rolling to his back, John held him and washed the cheetah’s face.

The purring put John to sleep.

There was no video of John rescuing the boy, but the men from the Center were already on FOX news, claiming there’d been a team, highly organized and ruthless. There was speculation that the boy had been taken for his body parts, and the parents had railed against interference in God’s plan. Switching to another channel, the news media was churning out stories about Felines, some no doubt planted by the Center.

The White House had no comment, none whatsoever, but Republicans were calling for stricter laws concerning Felines while Democrats were demanding more oversight of the Center and a review of all policies. The pot had well and truly been stirred. Harold took a break to check on John and the boy and fought back a smile at the pile of fur in the bed. John cracked an eyelid but didn’t move, and the cheetah burrowed even closer.

There was time for them to rest, and Harold got a snack of his own before returning to his computer. There was always work to do, like investigating the uncle, and it was early yet. He’d take a pain pill later and get some sleep. Hopefully, the numbers would wait.

“Please, just, don’t send me home!”

The kid’s distress brought John wide awake and he was in his skin before he touched the floor. Harold had cooked breakfast from the smell of things, and John stalked that direction.

“There are clothes, Mr. Reese. Please find some for our young friend as well.” Harold didn’t even glance at him. “Alec, I have no intention of sending you home. Your uncle was very clear on that point.”

John whistled loud enough to get Alec’s attention. “Clothes! Now!”

“Geez.” The kid stomped through the apartment. It was easy to hear, even with carpet. “I’m not going back! I’ll run away!”

“We already did that part, kid,” John said, handing him some sweats that were Harold’s and a T-shirt to go with them. “Let’s eat, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

“You promise?” Alec yanked on the too-big clothes without a complaint.

“We promise.” John didn’t bother with socks or shoes. “Don’t make me give you scout’s honor or anything.”

“I wasn’t a scout,” Harold said as they returned to the kitchen area. “I hate bugs far too much for that.” He was piling the food on the table. “I know cooking the meat isn’t required, but I was in the mood for a bit of bacon myself.”

“Maybe I’ll save you a piece.” John made sure the kid sat down and got started before filling his own plate. “Switching takes a lot of energy, Alec. Eat whenever you can, until you’re full, especially at your age. Cheetahs are thin anyway.”

“Okay. I’d rather be a lion, I think.” Alec was already on his second pancake. “I can’t even roar!”

“Mr. Reese can’t purr, so I think you’re fine.” Harold smiled at him. “Make sure to Switch at least once a day. It’ll keep your cat happy.”

John sighed, just a little, but it was true. “Only if it’s safe. Never Switch if you’re not sure.”

Alec looked from Harold to John, cheeks full. He swallowed and chased it all with some orange juice. “What if I shift on accident?”

“It happens to all of us.” John wasn’t mentioning the guy who’d been on fire. “Do your best in the situation. Run if you have to and don’t stop until you’re safe.” He saw Harold back him up with a nod. “Tell us about your uncle.”

“He moved here from Montana. Dad and Mom both said he was a heathen and to stay away from him.”

“So, you did the opposite,” Harold said with only a trace of sarcasm.

Nodding, Alec swiped a handful of bacon and started munching with a big smile. John kept on eating as well, but he could tell that Harold had investigated the uncle thoroughly. Harold ate very little, but he did enjoy his tea. John stopped when his stomach was full, and his lion itched at him, wanting to run and play. It was wrong, but he was going to try to ignore the teachings of the Center for the rest of his life. John helped Harold clear the table, and Alec went to poke around the rest of the apartment.

“The uncle’s okay?”

“He is. For some reason, I have the feeling he moved here to prevent this, but I have no evidence.” Harold thought they could rely on him. “I’m going to meet with him today, check for a number, and perhaps ruin the credit of Alec’s parents.”

John grinned. “I’ll take care of Alec. He needs time in his fur.”

“Before you Switch, Mr. Reese, please go find your phone and all the destroyed clothes.” Harold smiled back at him, and then they both looked away. John went to the elevator, giving a whistle, and a young cheetah bolted out from the direction of the bathroom. Harold saw John’s hand linger on Alec’s head, and his throat tightened, just a little. They went upstairs, and Harold prepared for his day. He needed to be Harold Wren today, as well, so he’d meet Sam Janson there.

The Felines didn’t return before Harold was ready, so he took the elevator up and went out to his Explorer. He heard a roar in the far corner of the warehouse, not surprised at all when John pounded up. The cheetah ran into John’s back end, paws skidding wildly. Harold couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’ll be careful, and I’ll call if there’s news.” Harold made sure not to run over any tails on his way out, taking extra care with the security system and heading back into the city. Putting in the morning hours as Harold Wren gave him the time to check the news and make a phone call.

“Fusco.”

“Hello, Detective. How are you today?” Harold kept it formal.

“Working my ass off, looking for that cat kid that the Feds lost. Everyone is on the street. Everyone.” Fusco lowered his voice. “Door-to-door searches. They’re talking about the National Guard and closing airports. They’ve already closed the bridges to outgoing traffic.”

“Oh, my.” Harold had noticed, thus the phone call. “Any leads?”

There was a long silence. “No.” And Harold heard a door slam. Fusco still kept his voice low. “If you guys don’t have him, get him. They’re loading real ammunition. And if you do have him, get him to another country. Fast.”

“I can neither confirm or deny, but thank you, Detective. I’ll pass along your words of wisdom.” Harold hung up, so glad they’d taken the boy out of the city yesterday. He texted John with the information and did nothing but sit, thinking for the longest time. Alec’s picture was everywhere, and traveling by car presented a whole host of problems. Harold dug the business card out of his pocket and made the call. “Sam Janson?”

“Tell me he’s safe.”

“He is.” Harold was reassured by the breathless tone. “Do you have a pencil? Get to this address by 1 pm. Leave your cell phone behind, make sure your clothes and shoes aren’t bugged, and take a cab. I’m sure they’re watching you.”

“They are.” The uncle took a deep breath. “They were here last night. It got ugly.”

“You didn’t lose your contact lenses, did you?” Harold played his best card. “I have extras, if you need them.”

The breath turned into a real growl, “Never hurts to have them. Don’t betray us.”

“Please arrive at the address on time.” Harold hung up. He worked until noon, made sure his people were doing their jobs and then took the rest of the week off. It was time to get to the airport.

When John got the message, he didn’t hesitate. The little cheetah had ten million questions, but John just kept him moving, packing clothes and food in two duffle bags he found in a closet. The airport wasn’t far, but he’d learned long ago that escaping was the tricky part when you were a Feline. Alec looked scared when they ditched the pickup and walked the last mile to the small airport. They both wore baseball caps, and John kept his arm around the boy. He scouted the terrain carefully before they crossed the last stretch of pavement to a shadowed building.

“John?” Alec’s voice trembled.

“We’re being cautious. I won’t allow anyone to hurt you.” John meant that in every fiber of his being. “Just. Breathe. No one likes a cheetah on an airplane.”

Alec covered his mouth, but John heard the laugh. John smelled him first, and he turned, gun up, ready to fire, but he recognized the uncle from the picture Harold had sent. Alex dashed to his uncle, and John heard the quiet sobs.

“I’m a cheetah, Uncle Sam.”

“I know.” Janson hugged him. “A very handsome one.”

John holstered his gun but stayed sharp, just watching. “You’re a Feline.”

“A very large one.” Janson had a glint in his eye that meant he was ready to fight. The other eye was bruised, swollen. “Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome.” John had worked on saying those words, instead of brushing it aside as nothing. “You ditched your tail?”

Janson nodded and grinned at the Feline humor. They waited another few minutes, and John was starting to think Harold would be late when he heard it. The little plane bounced to a landing and rolled down the grass runway. John grabbed the duffle bags. “Carry him. Run.”

They did, but no one showed up at the last minute to shoot at them, which for John was a first. John helped them both get loaded, meeting Harold’s eyes and knowing there was no room for him. “Fly safe, Harold.”

“I always do. I trust you, John.” Harold got the engine back up to full speed, and John watched them fly away. Harold trusted him. It felt strange, but John understood. Harold trusted him to work the numbers. John got moving back towards the library, and he heard on the radio that the boy had been spotted on a subway surveillance camera. He laughed. Harold was full of tricks.

John’s phone rang right as he opened the library door. “Lionel.”

“Tell me you got him away.”

“That would be telling.” John kept his voice very smooth. “How’s Carter?”

“Upset. We’re cops, not big game hunters.” Fusco sounded disgusted. “He’s a kid.”

John thought maybe there was hope for Fusco after all. “Careful, Fusco, you got a reputation.”

“Yeah, a bad one. Okay, call me if you need help on this.” And he hung up. John sat in Harold’s chair and stared at the phone, thinking it through. Tomorrow, he’d go buy some brushes. He really did need help with his mane.

***


	11. Chapter 11

***

Montana was beautiful, the weather was perfect, if chilly, and Harold landed his plane without a bobble on a grass runway in the exact middle of nowhere. The airport sported a few old hangers and a bedraggled windsock, and it was perfectly fine. Truth was, he was tired. His entire body ached, and he needed sleep, but he wanted to go home. Vehicles came down the runway at them, and he shut down the engine before he turned to meet Janson’s eyes. “You said this was safe?”

“It is.” Janson hugged his nephew. “Welcome home, Alec.”

Harold supposed he had to stretch his legs, and he opened the door, climbing down, nearly falling, but a big man with a badge, complete with cowboy hat, caught him. “Harold Crow?”

“Yes.” Harold stared into the sheriff’s yellow eyes and nodded in satisfaction. “No one tracked us here.”

“Sheriff Holt. We kept an eye out for you.” Men and women swarmed the plane and helped Sam and Alec from the plane. It had been a rather long series of jumps. The sheriff stayed close as Harold did a post-flight check and considered his next step. Alec escaped from his swarm and ran to him.

“Thank you, Harold.”

“You’re welcome, Alec. It was my pleasure.” Harold smiled. “Be safe.”

“We’re going to hunt deer!” the boy crowed. He run off towards his uncle, and Harold felt his leg wobble as he was giving thanks he didn’t have to participate. He noticed the sheriff was staying very close, and Harold had the distinct feeling he’d saved his last number. There was no reason for them to let him walk away. If he were lucky, they’d let him sleep in his plane and fly out as soon as he was able.

People loaded into cars and pickups, and Janson gave him one last wave before disappearing into one. The relief was palpable. They were home. The sheriff caught Harold’s arm before he could take a step back towards his plane. Hoping the sheriff didn’t kill him seemed a waste of time.

“You need rest before you fall on your ass.” Unexpected words that made Harold cautious.

“I need to get home.” Harold was smart enough to see that wasn’t possible right now. He’d gone too far, and his body was furious with him. “I’m fond of this plane.” Harold knew it was ridiculous, but he didn’t want it stolen while he was passed out somewhere.

“My guys will put in a hanger.” The sheriff moved right as Harold’s hip gave out. Harold was so grateful John wasn’t here to see him being carried to the sheriff’s car like a fainting maiden. “You always stubborn?”

“I have to be.” Harold was glad to be tucked into a car, and he started stretching his leg. If the sheriff did intend to kill him, he was doing it far from the airport, perhaps for Alec’s sake. “I might fly commercial home.”

“Word is they’re searching all the small planes landing and taking off from the New York area.” The sheriff didn’t waste time getting them moving down the road. “You beat them out.”

“I had inside information.” Harold owed Fusco for that. “Are you a lion?”

“Puma.” Sheriff Holt kept his eyes on the road. “We don’t trust easily.”

“A commendable attitude.” Harold hoped they were going somewhere where he could lay flat. He needed to take a pain pill, if the sheriff didn’t kill him. The sheriff was large, like John, who would be so angry when Harold didn’t come home. “My partner, John, is a lion. Black mane. Big. First time we met, I was sure he was going to kill me.”

“You ran?”

“Of course not.” Harold smiled, thinking of it. The pain pulsed, and he breathed, trying to ease through it. “Perhaps I could take him a deer or two?” And he laughed because he wasn’t getting out of this alive.

“You’re something for a little guy.” The sheriff pulled to a stop in front of a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. “You’ll be safe here. Let me help.”

It appeared the sheriff wasn’t going to kill him, not yet, and Harold hated that he had no choice in the matter. “Thank you.” He managed a hobbling walk, not wanting to be carried again, but he sank gratefully down on the bed that was blessedly not upstairs in the loft. The sheriff did this and that, and Harold dry-swallowed a pain pill, not willing to wait for water.

“Do you want me to call John?” Sheriff Holt was swimming in and out of Harold’s vision.

“He doesn’t trust either.” Harold gripped his phone tightly. “I’ll sleep.” Whatever the sheriff said, Harold didn’t hear a word of it. He woke when he heard someone mumbling the word ‘shit’ over and over again. Mortified when he realized it was his own mouth, he clamped it shut and tried to sit up. His body thought that was a terrible idea, but he had to get moving. It hurt, but he was mostly up, getting his legs at least pointed towards the floor. About the time he realized he was in boxers and an undershirt, he also noticed a large tiger asleep on the floor, no doubt keeping watch. He flexed his foot several times and took deep breaths, finding his glasses on the side table. The smell of food caught his attention then, and he turned towards the kitchen tucked on the other side of the cabin. The sheriff saluted him with a spatula. “Need help?”

“Do I dare assume the facilities are inside the cabin?”

The sheriff grinned. “Little door to your right, hidden by the saddle.”

Harold wasn’t questioning why they were using a saddle as décor. He groaned as he got to his feet, trying to stretch again, and limped heavily to the washroom. The tiger never moved. Harold was gratified to see his clothes, folded on a small shelf, looking as if they’d been washed. While he preferred his suits, the khakis and pullover were much more suited to his current adventure.

Feeling a little better after a shower, he dressed and went to find his phone. He was sure it’d been in his hand when he fell asleep, but then again, he’d been dressed then. The tiger was gone, but there were a couple of puma kittens tussling on the floor. Perhaps having décor that wasn’t breakable made sense as he watched them race around the small cabin.

“My boys came over.” Sheriff Holt sighed. “They’re always hungry.”

“That seems to be a common trait in young boys.” Harold found his phone on a side table and might’ve clutched it, seeing that he had no service. He took a seat at the table when the sheriff gave it a pointed look. “Thank you for cooking.”

“I enjoy it. My wife is grateful for that.” He chuckled. “Boys! Go wash!”

They bolted for the washroom. Harold started eating the instant his plate was down, surprised he was hungry. He kept his eyes averted when two very naked boys joined him at the rough-hewn table, chowing down with youthful enthusiasm. The sheriff shrugged. “Feline children run around naked a lot. I forgot not everyone is used to it.”

“John is naked often enough. I quite understand.” Harold eyed the coffee in front of him. He hated to be rude. “Do you have any water?”

Holt nodded, getting him a bottle from the fridge. “Not a coffee drinker.”

“Tea.” Harold smiled, a little. He felt very awkward, but he had to get his legs under him so he could get home to John. “I hope you don’t expect me to ask questions about your community of Felines. I won’t be doing that.”

“Good.” The sheriff smiled, an honest one. He plunked himself down at the other end of the table and ate like the large Feline that he was, quickly and lots of it. “I wasn’t going to answer them anyway.”

Harold shifted on his hip, thinking of his pain pills and wondering where they were. “My pills?”

The sheriff got to his feet and retrieved them from a kitchen cabinet. He handed them over. “Bad, huh?”

“At times.” Harold wasn’t saying anything more on the topic. He never took a pill before noon, but today was a different sort of day. If he was going to be traipsing through the backwoods of Montana, he’d need a pill. Shrugging, he took one. “My plane?”

“They put it in a hanger.” The sheriff refilled his son’s plates. “You two scamper home once you’re done, and no hunting. Your mother is tired of dead squirrels in the house.”

They ferociously complained, but he was adamant about it. They asked to be excused when their plates were clean and ran out the door, shifting mid-stride. “They’re good kids, just a little rambunctious.”

Harold wished John had been here to see them. John had been so good with Alec. “I know Alec will flourish here. It concerns me that his parents are living and seem willing to do him harm.”

The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “Interesting way to put it. Sam tells me they’re too cheap to chase after him themselves. We worry more about the FBI and the Center.”

“I can help there.” Harold’s fingers itched for his computer. “But I will need a computer and Internet access.” He glanced at his phone. “Or at least a phone with coverage.” He saw the tiny twitch. “But that was the idea, right? Keep me isolated from your community of Felines. In case you needed to kill me.”

“Yes.” The sheriff nodded, scrapping his plate for the last of the egg. “Sam took a chance, trusting you with this location, but I don’t trust anyone except my wife.”

Deciding not to answer that, Harold finished eating. “Thank you for breakfast. It was quite good. I assume I’m not due for a shallow grave since you fed me.”

“I’d have just let the kids eat you.” The sheriff waited a beat before flashing a smile that did nothing to reassure Harold about his fate. “Tell me about John. Maybe he has family here.”

Harold would do no such thing. He drank some water and looked at his phone, considering a way to boost its ability to find a satellite. Sheriff Holt gave out a raw chuckle. “Haven’t met many good Humans, but I’m starting to think I can add you to the short list. We’ll go find you a computer, maybe you can Facetime your John.”

Getting out of the hard-backed wooden chair took a grunt of effort. Harold put his plate in the sink and tucked his water bottle under his arm. “I’ve always wanted to see a buffalo.” He was just talking, not asking for anything.

“You may get lucky.” The sheriff ran some water to soak the dishes. “I’ll send someone to clean up,” he muttered, and they were headed out the door. It was mid-morning, and the sky seemed to go on forever. Harold let himself admire the view. It wasn’t Italy, but it was quite nice. Back in the sheriff’s vehicle, he watched the scenery, hoping that John was managing the numbers since it seemed Harold was going to be here until the sheriff was satisfied and released him.

The first time a pay phone rang when John was standing next to it, he jumped and started walking again. After all, it wasn’t for him. He stopped to stare a moment at the second pay phone that rang as he went by, and by the third one, he was a little worried. Cautiously, he picked up the receiver.

“Alpha. Harley. Species. Darwin. Medicine. Smith.”

John hesitated before hastily writing them down on his hand. He hung up the phone and stood there on the sidewalk, staring down at the words.

“Move it!”

Embarrassed, John hustled back to the library and wrote them on the glass board. “I gave you a job, Mr. Reese. I never said it would be easy,” John said, quoting Harold. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d just been contacted by whatever gave Harold his information. Whether it was a backdoor into the DOD, or some sort of app, it didn’t really matter. The damn thing was never wrong. He checked his phone again, not hearing from Harold for any length of time made him twitchy. He was sure Harold was fine, but a text wouldn’t have killed him.

He had six books open to different codes when his phone beeped with a text. He lunged for it. It read, ‘Refueling. All is well.’ That was it. He shot back a text instantly. ‘Phone gave me names. Now what?’ And he sat down to stare at his cell phone. It beeped. ‘Library.’

“That’s not helpful, Harold.” John didn’t bother texting back. He nudged a few books out of the way and put his feet up to think. One dropped to the floor and he picked it up, glancing at the title. In a blink, he had it and was moving through the library. “What a nerd,” he grumbled, having to scan a good portion of the nearby books before he found the three he needed. He lined them up and wrote the social security number down on the glass.

It was time to turn on Harold’s computer and see if he could make any headway on the passcode. He’d only failed thirty times so far. His phone beeped again, and he grabbed it up. 

‘316GUL0489BPLC85.’

“Thanks, Harold.” John wrote it down and deleted the text. Then he wiped the memory, broke the phone in half, and got a new one out of the drawer. So, he was paranoid. It’d keep him and Harold alive longer. John printed a picture first, taping it up like Harold would. He’d often wondered if all the pictures helped Harold focus, or if it was just an easier way to share information. “My first solo number,” he muttered. “Hope it’s not my last.”

They ended up at a small library, and Harold chuckled a little as they went inside. “Finally, a bastion of civilization.”

“You wanted to see a buffalo,” Sheriff Holt said.

“Yes, but I wasn’t expecting to wait half the day while a herd camped out on the highway.” Harold shot him a glare. “Am I right in assuming you have no jurisdiction in this little town?”

“Some. Not much.” Sheriff Holt shrugged. “Not my county, but we’re safe here.”

“I thought so.” Harold would never know exactly where Alec Hanson was being raised, and he hoped John was okay with that. He obtained a guest log-in from the librarian, who looked at him like he was from outer space, and went to the computer farthest from her desk. Sheriff Holt pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. They exchanged a short look.

“Nothing personal. We’re just private people.”

It was difficult not to laugh hysterically, but Harold shoved it down, just allowing a small smile to grace his face. “I assume I can have packages shipped here to you?”

“That’ll be fine.” The sheriff tilted his head, looking very Feline for a moment. “Why?”

“First, let’s get enough contact lenses in your hands that all of you can hide in plain sight, if need be.” Harold placed a bulk order, faking the information as if he were a retailer, fingers flying across the keys, imputing passwords that would bypass the payment page and delete the order after it was filled. “If you ever need more, you may contact me at this email.” Harold printed off the order form and jotted the email for Harold Crane at the bottom of it.

“How?” The sheriff folded the sheet carefully and tucked it away. “Your last name is Crane?”

“Sometimes.” Harold shrugged. “I’m a very private person.”

The sheriff lowered his head and laughed. “I’ll just call you ‘Harold.’”

“Now.” Harold lowered his voice to just above a bare whisper, knowing the Feline could hear him perfectly well. “The best way to stay off the FBI radar is to make sure no one in your community uses the computer for, shall we say, evil. The Internet is closely monitored. Don’t allow your people to use the darknet, or run Google searches that can alert the authorities to unusual activities. Also, limit social media. Facebook is practically mined by the government. Don’t post pictures and don’t give out personal information. Everyone needs to be changing their passwords frequently and don’t click any ads, ever.”

“What about cell phones?”

“Same rules, and go with a smaller local provider, if you’re able.” Harold smirked. “Don’t worry about the Center. Their Internet access is currently under a DOS attack and won’t be functional for some time. It’ll be longer if I’m angry when I get home.”

Sheriff Holt’s eyes were wide and his jaw had sagged a bit. “Anything else?”

“It’s a start.” Harold printed several pages of how to be Internet savvy and handed them to the sheriff. “No hacking. It sets off all kinds of bells and whistles.”

“Most of us have trouble with our iPhones.”

“Get rid of those. Use flip phones. Burner phones. I can track and break in to Apple products in just a few minutes, and I’m not that good at it.” Harold had been keeping an eye on the librarian, and she was starting to glare. “Please pay for the pages I printed. I have no small bills with me.”

“Sure.” The sheriff seemed in a daze as he went to the front desk.

Harold got his phone out and sent John a quick text, just checking on him. John sent back a picture of a nearly empty freezer, and Harold smiled, unable to help himself.

“Talking to John?”

Putting the phone away, Harold took the time to erase his presence on the computer and all his activities. He noticed three users were watching porn whenever they logged in, and flagged their accounts for the librarian to review. That done, he bolstered the firewall and put in a few security measures, just in case a Feline used one of these computers.

“What are you doing?” The sheriff loomed into Harold’s space as code flew by on the screen.

“These computers have cameras. They store the pictures of who uses them. Those pictures are accessible to anyone with a bare minimum of computer skills and a Wi-Fi connection.” Harold pointed at a picture of a Feline before it was erased. “You, and your pride, have to be more than paranoid.”

“Shit.” After that, the sheriff let him work in silence.

When Harold was done, he logged himself out. “We were never here, and neither were any of your people.”

They went out of the library together, and for the first time, Harold believed he was getting out of this alive. The sheriff wouldn’t kill him in public, and Harold wasn’t getting in the sheriff’s car again unless he was unconscious. The sheriff let out a loud sigh. “We need help.”

“You see, it was smart not to let me in your town, but if I were a bad person, I could find out, as easily as going to this library.” Harold dug out his phone and took a picture to send to John. “I need to go home, but I know someone who can help you.”

The sheriff started shaking his head, and Harold decided to go sit at the picnic table across the street under a tree. “Sheriff, would you mind getting us some food and something to drink? I need to take another pill.” He lied easily and with a small smile.

“I’m always hungry.” The sheriff hurried away, and Harold got out his phone, waiting until he sure Feline ears couldn’t hear him.

“I know you’re there.”

There was a long pause and then the notifications light blinked twice.

“Help them hide. Please.” Harold knew his creation had been listening. She always did. “They can’t be found, and clearly, none of them know a microwave from a laptop.”

The light blinked, and Harold read the Morse code easily. He nodded. “Thank you. And quit nagging. I’m going home.” He scowled at his child, though it wouldn’t do any good, and booked a ticket home on the next flight out of Butte. That done, he called a cab. This place wasn’t completely uncivilized. The sheriff returned before the cab arrived, so Harold munched on a few fries before taking a pain pill. He hurt, but he’d live, and he was getting out of here.

“So, what’s the plan?” the sheriff asked.

“If you don’t mind, look after my plane. I’ll send you appropriate hanger fees.” Harold noticed the sheriff didn’t protest. “And if you can, email me a picture of Alec occasionally. Contacts in, of course.”

“Of course.” The sheriff wouldn’t do it.

The cab pulled up to the curb, and Harold got up, kept his water, and left with a bare wave. The sheriff stayed where he was, eating his burger. He’d looked surprised for an instant, but then he’d shrugged. Harold respected him, but the sheriff had been careful to only show his good side. Pumas would hunt Humans, and Harold knew that the sheriff would kill him, if necessary, without one thought of remorse. Harold would send someone for his plane, unless John wanted a vacation.

John shoved Fusco to the side and shot for the knee, satisfied with the screaming that followed. “You gotta be more careful, Lionel.”

“Criminals have no respect.” Fusco called for an ambulance after he arrested the guy. John slid away, satisfied that he’d helped enough. Carter was still after him, but he’d begun to think that her heart wasn’t in it. He saw her at the diner with her son, and he watched her competently juggle more cases than anyone else in homicide. Sooner or later, she’d come around. Her moral compass was pointed the right way.

The pay phone up the street rang, and he sighed as he went to get it. The numbers rarely took a day off, and it was time for Harold to come home.

“Admin. JFK. Three a.m.” And the line went dead.

Hanging up the phone, John smiled.

***


	12. Chapter 12

***

Waking up on his expensive mattress, surrounded by his exorbitantly-priced pillows felt so good. Harold didn’t even try to move. He just enjoyed being horizontal. He was home, and he could smell tea, and the world could keep spinning without him, just for a moment.

“Feeling okay?” John asked.

It was a jolt, but Harold controlled the urge to dash for the safety of his bathroom. “It’s been worse.” He began his stretches, taking his time and making sure he had pajamas on, not just his boxers. “Do we have a number?”

“Not yet.” John paused. “I went out and stood by the nearest payphone for a good ten minutes, just in case.”

“Thank you.” Harold fumbled his glasses on his face and cautiously sat up, leaning back against a mountain of pillows. “I saw a buffalo, actually quite a few of them. They’re huge.”

“Are they good to eat?” John had a genuine smile on his face, and he stretched to hand Harold a cup of tea. It was decidedly odd to have John in his bedroom, but Harold decided he didn’t mind it.

“I didn’t ask.” Harold sipped the tea and nodded at how perfect it was. “Alec was promised a deer hunt. I have a feeling the Felines in Montana have good lives.”

John looked at the floor for a moment then back up. “They called off the search for Alec. The FBI believes he was shipped overseas, probably sold on the black market.”

“Cheetahs do bring a hefty price tag.” Harold found the topic extremely distasteful. “He’ll live a happy life now.” He’d make sure the government never found them. “I’m home.” He was quite talkative this morning, and he didn’t know how he felt about that.

“It was a surprise to me, as well.” John found a chair at the far end of the bedroom, where he had a book and coffee. “I know you never meant to bring me here.”

“I wouldn’t say never, but this neighborhood is quite heavily scrutinized for strangers. The police are called at the first sight of someone who doesn’t live inside these gates. God forbid you roll in the grass.” Harold chuckled at the idea of a lion in the yard. “Honestly, I’m tired of this place. I moved here after I died, and it’s never felt like a place I’d like to stay.”

John was drinking his coffee. He shrugged. “The apartment in the warehouse? You’ve only been there once?”

“Perhaps.” Harold wasn’t sure, and he drank his tea. “It has a tunnel exit. I know it concerned you. The elevator will only go down with the proper code. It’s a bit far from the library, and the commute is hellish.”

“Maybe I’ll spend time there, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I’ll send you all the passcodes.” Harold thought it was only natural that John would want a place to be his lion far from the library. “You’ll have to stock it yourself. I don’t allow strangers at that site.”

John nodded, seemingly more interested in his book and coffee than talking. Harold forced his back muscles to relax and stretched his leg again and again. It was time for another backup site, and this time, he wasn’t fooling around with generators. Harold finished his tea before carefully making his way to the edge of bed and getting his feet on the floor. This bed was the perfect height so he didn’t strain his neck or hip, and he was taking it with him. He happened to glance at John, who was looking at him very intently.

Feeling a bit like prey, Harold started for the bathroom. He luxuriated in his shower and took his time dressing, choosing some of his comfort favorites. It was certainly nice to be home. When he emerged, his bed was made but there was no sign of John. The tea cup was also gone, and Harold went to the kitchen, hoping for another.

It was steaming on the dining room table near a table setting, and he sat in front of it, not seeing John to thank him. Before he’d finished even two sips, John brought in a platter of pancakes. He also had butter and syrup. “You need to stock breakfast meats.”

Harold laughed. “I’ll make a note.” For some reason, he felt… happy this morning. He served himself, glad when John didn’t try. “You have a bruise on your face, Mr. Reese. Any bullet holes I should be aware of?”

“Not recently.” John was digging in with real concentration, not looking at Harold. “Did you want a debrief on the numbers that came in while you were gone?”

“That sounds highly formal. Perhaps we should wait until we’re at the library. That way if I need to delete video of you blowing up a car, I can.”

“I only did that once,” John grumbled. “Once!”

Again, Harold laughed, and John joined him. Their eyes met, and this time, Harold wasn’t all interested in looking away. “Thank you, John.”

“I’m not even asking for what.” John might’ve blushed, color rising up his neck. He went back to work on his pancakes, and Harold joined him. They could get a number any minute, and he was hungry.

The library smelled like home, or at least it did to John. He joined Harold at the round table, and they went over the numbers with a fine-toothed comb. Harold did use his computer to do a few things to finish the cases, and John was glad his partner was back. When John was done, he crossed his legs and made sure Harold was listening, not lost in a computer program.

“Your turn. Tell me everything.” John didn’t phrase it as a request. He wanted to know, just in case they ever had to run.

Harold’s eyebrows went up, but he began a recitation that wouldn’t have passed muster at the CIA. John interrupted him several times to ask pointed questions, and he was a little surprised when Harold answered him completely.

“You really thought he would kill you?” John thought the sheriff could’ve been a little more grateful.

“Wouldn’t you? To protect an entire community of Felines?”

It was a good point, but John shrugged, not wanting to think about Harold in a shallow grave somewhere in Montana while he was stuck in New York.

“I feel as if I’m being interrogated,” Harold said, opening a bottle of water and taking a drink, but he kept answering questions until John was satisfied. “They really do need better Internet security. I asked a friend to give them a hand.”

“Is it possible I have relatives there?” John was glad Harold hadn’t shared any information about him. “I am adopted.”

“It’s possible, but there’s no way to know without you going there and conducting DNA tests on every lion in town.” Harold looked at him very intently. “You’ve never shared how you came to be at the Center.”

“You didn’t read my file?” John was a little shocked.

Harold flushed. “Your file only begins after you were taken to the Center.”

“Oh.” John didn’t care. He’d never had any privacy, not really. He had more working with Harold, and Harold was very nosy. “My dad died. I was, um, upset. I drank everything in the house, took the car to a local bar, and demanded more. Of course, they knew I was too young to drink and threw me out on my ass. I Switched and went after them.”

“Oh, dear.” Harold could picture it very clearly. “I know you didn’t hurt anyone.”

“I was new to my fur, and four legs are far different than two, especially when you’re drunk. Mostly, I staggered around and roared a lot. I’m lucky no one just shot me, but they called the police. They used Tasers on me, and I woke up in the back of a police car, collared and chained.” John stopped, amazed at Harold’s faith in his good nature. It wasn’t warranted, given how many people John had shot over the last months. “No one was more surprised than I was.”

Another drink of water, and Harold seemed to be studiously not looking at him. “I’m sorry.” He took a very deep breath and rushed out his next words. “My dad developed early onset of Alzheimer’s when I was in high school. I had to put him in a home. When the Department of Defense caught me, shall we say, exploring their databases, I… ran, left him behind. Nathan once said that I don’t even remember my real name anymore.”

John had been holding his breath in disbelief that Harold was talking about his past. “It used to bother me, when Kara renamed me. Now, I don’t much care.”

“I feel much the same.” Harold met John’s eyes. “I do remember, though.” He shrugged. “We’re both very private people.”

They shared a laugh, and the moment was over. Harold began to fuss with cleaning up his computer desk, grumbling that John was more of a pig than a lion, and John was sent out to pick up a vast number of steaks from a local butcher. John put his coat on and went quickly. A number could come in, and he wanted his freezer full before that happened.

Watching him go, Harold made sure not to smile, but he was very afraid that he’d fallen right off the deep end for John. He was sure John didn’t feel the same, but they could be friends, bound by the numbers, invested in other people’s futures.

It took two trips to the car to get all the meat in the freezer. John felt like a pack mule and had an itch between his shoulders because he was very noticeable. He was careful, but next time, he was doing this after midnight. “Harold, how did all the meat get in there the first time?”

“Temporal vortex.” Harold didn’t look away from his computer screen. He was very intent on something that he clicked away from when John was close enough to see. “I’m surprised we don’t have a number.”

“Maybe the numbers know how tired you are and feel bad about it.” John stretched his shoulders and sat back down in the chair that he thought of as ‘his.’ He carefully rubbed his eyes and had a strange thought. “How’s the contact lenses business?”

“The pink ones are flying off the shelf.” Harold sounded very serious. “Would you like some? Also, the next generation is here, so look for a box to show up at the first safe house.”

“I’d look great in pink.” John smiled, just glad Harold was no longer in Montana. Now, he needed something to do that would give him an excuse to watch Harold work on his computers. “I’m going to clean my guns.”

Harold gave him a long-suffering look. “Anything new I should worry about more than usual?”

“Of course not.” John smiled his big fake one that never fooled Harold. “I did pick up a new sniper rifle. I’ll get it.” He didn’t have to fake his enthusiasm for that. It was one, sweet rifle, and he’d been repeatedly punched before he’d acquired it through very illegal means.

“Hooray,” Harold drawled, and John was gratified to see Harold’s eyes widen when he plunked it down, carefully, on the table. “John, I think you have issues.”

“Oh, me too, but look at this. This is a Cheytac M200. For distance, you can’t beat it, and it’s lightweight.” He started taking it apart; he’d clean it. “It’s not useful for most tactical situations, but there was no way I was leaving it with the guy who had it. I stole the ammo, too. I thought you’d like this one because it’s expensive.” He grinned into the face of Harold’s obvious discomfort. “For my birthday, I’m going to try to steal the sound suppressor.”

“Now you’re just teasing me.” Harold was looking at it on-line though. “Ridiculous.”

It was easy to laugh, and John was a little embarrassed at the size of his crush on Harold. First of all, John didn’t want to have sex again, ever, not since being whored out by the CIA. Kara hadn’t cared about John’s opinion on the subject. She’d just used him, always tightly collared to a bed post so he couldn’t Switch without choking out. He shoved the memory away and cleaned his gun. Harold liked him, but not like that, and it was so good to have a friend that John was sure he was making more of it than was really there.

“I’m going to work a half day. Would you like to get together for dinner afterwards? Assuming we don’t have a number.”

John stiffened, hand stilling on the rifle. His mind skittered in ten different directions, panic being uppermost that Harold suspected John’s affection.

“Mr. Reese, I apologize. I am having difficulties with the boundaries in this relationship.” Harold turned away, face down. “I’ll try harder. Human interaction is difficult for me.”

“I’m not Human.” John wished he could see Harold’s eyes, get a read on the situation. If Harold wanted those boundaries torn down, John would help him do it. Perhaps there was way to learn what Harold was thinking, if John was tricky about it. “Do you have a safe house with a pool? I haven’t been swimming in years.”

Harold turned, full-body, to him, surprise on his face. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Let me check my database.”

And John had to laugh. “Harold, you should cut back.”

“They’re investments, Mr. Reese.” Harold looked slightly offended as he turned to his computers. “Hotels are fascinating places.”

“For the wealthy, yes.” John worked quickly, snapping the gun back together when he was satisfied at the level of cleanliness. “The ammo comes in five to seven rounds.”

“You have your hobbies. I have mine.” Harold only had eyes for his monitors, giving John a chance to really look at him. He wasn’t handsome, but he was good-looking, and the spirit of the man shined in everything he did. John was also a huge fan of sarcasm. He had never met another Human like Harold, so unafraid to live a life helping people when it might (probably would) lead to his death.

“Ah, here’s one. My, I’d forgotten I own that. We should visit, and then I’ll sell it for an enormous profit.” Harold nodded. “I’ll book the floor. You’ll go as my bodyguard. Harold Crane has to uphold his reputation as eccentric from time to time.”

“I guess I’ll go buy a swimsuit.” John wasn’t going freak out this time. Harold wasn’t planning this to pressure him into sex. He would never do that, so John would have to find out if Harold was interested and then act on it.

“No need. They’re provided.” Harold glanced over at him. “Wear those sunglasses. You always look very dangerous in them.”

John grinned. “I am dangerous.” He got up and went to hide his new gun. There was an extra duffle bag up on the third floor, and if he needed this, he wanted to be able to grab and go. Striding off, he hoped the food was good in whatever hotel that Harold picked.

Watching him leave always felt a little bit like an indulgence. John looked particularly good from the backside. Harold had noticed John staring at him, and he honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to know why. For all Harold knew, John could be hungry. Getting up, he stretched and began to pace, just moving his leg so it didn’t stiffen up. A heated pool did sound lovely, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let John see him, really see the scars in all their awfulness. Harold wasn’t ashamed, and he knew John had seen horrible things in his time with the Army, but Harold wasn’t sure he could be that vulnerable, not with anyone.

Pushing all that aside, Harold sat back down and made the arrangements to monopolize a good part of his hotel for the evening and next day, not feeling guilty in the least. He was the owner, after all, and if he were honest, he’d move heaven and Earth for John, much less find him a swimming pool.

By the time John had his sniper rifle set to go, if needed, he was hungry so he detoured to his freezer, unwrapped a few steaks, and undressed to Switch. John ate quickly, got a drink from his fountain, and went up to the highest point to lounge a bit.

When Harold peeked in the room, John did nothing but flick his tail. “I’m going to work. I’ll send a car for you later. Pick up will be at my usual street corner, and yes, I know you know where that is.”

John roared, but not in a mean way. That done, he flopped over and closed his eyes, listening to Harold chuckle and then leave the building.

***


	13. Chapter 13

***

It was pride that pushed John out of the car and into the building where Harold Wren worked. John was in his best suit, hair in a style that Harold approved of, and dark sunglasses that hid his heritage. He supposed Harold might be angry, but John wanted to see Harold’s office, so he could picture him there. Harold knew everything about John, and John wanted a few crumbs of information of his own. This time, John would be careful not to blow Harold’s cover.

“John Randall, Security Systems, here to see Harold Wren.” John enjoyed her wide eyes and slack jaw as she looked him over.

She nodded. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but he’s expecting me.” John shifted just enough she could see the bulge of the gun in his suit coat. “He has a function this evening.”

Now she was on firmer ground, and she went to announce him. John was a half-step behind her, and she smelled nice, if nervous. “Mr. Wren, John Randall here to see you. He’s your bodyguard?” She sounded so confused.

“I hope you haven’t been terrorizing my staff, Mr. Randall,” Harold didn’t look up from his desk, which was a cluster of computers and files, good old-fashioned paperwork.

“Never,” John said, flashing his biggest smile. He had a small backpack with him, and he placed it near the door. It was for later.

“You’re terrifying when you do that, which you know.” Harold rolled his eyes, bringing John’s attention to the fact that he had on different glasses. “Thank you, Miss Park, please save yourself.”

She left with a tiny wave, and now Harold glared at him. “You’re early. I’ll have to finish these before we can go.”

“You know I hate your driver.” John wasn’t going to apologize for it. The guy was not capable of protecting Harold, and that’s what mattered. “Corner office, wow.” He went to stare out the windows while making short glances to check out the rest of the place. “The view is okay, not great.” He could hear Harold working. “Furnishing are top-notch, but the security to get in this place was dismal.”

“We sell insurance not nuclear codes.” Harold’s voice was dry as dust. “By now it’s all over the building that I have a private security. Hopefully, I’ll be demoted back to my old job.”

“That’s just wishful thinking.” John went to sit in a comfortable chair in front of Harold’s desk. “Do you check for bugs here?”

Harold looked up now. He frowned. “Yes.” He seemed a little embarrassed by that. “My apologies, would you like a tour?”

John thought about it. “I just wanted to see your office. Your secretary seems nice.”

“I have three.” Harold was back at it, going at a quick pace. “Miss Park, who you met, is quite competent. Mrs. Perkins knows the business as well as I do, but I’m thinking of firing Miss Jones. She takes far too many cigarette breaks.”

“You want me to talk to her?” John made sure to put some growl into his question.

“Since I have no desire for her to faint, no.” Harold turned off one computer and paused, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I’ve sent hanger fees to our friend in Montana, but I’d like to help them upgrade the airport there. How should I handle that?”

A little surprised, John thought about it. “I wouldn’t. An airport upgrade can make some people take another look.”

Harold pursed his lips. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll have to get my airplane before winter, or leave it until spring. Perhaps I’ll look into having someone fly it here.” He went back to his actual paperwork, and John watched him.

“Do I have insurance?” John smiled at him. “Worker’s comp? Dental?”

“John Rooney does.” Harold had a small smile teasing on his lips, not that John was staring. “You should get your teeth cleaned.”

“That might not go well.” John smiled, showing off his teeth. He got up and wandered back to the view, just watching the people, glad that they had some time off. He heard Harold get to his feet, but kept his eyes on the skies a minute longer. “Thanks for the job, Harold.”

Harold came up beside him, and his eyes were on the city, not John. “Thank you for being so competent at your job and not biting my head off at our first hotel meeting.”

“Humans taste weird.” John smiled at Harold’s reflection in the glass. Harold caught him at it, and gave him a tiny smirk of disbelief. “But seriously, why weren’t you scared? That would’ve set off my predator instinct, and I might’ve killed you.”

“I’ve been dead for years.” Harold was blatantly staring at John now, not the city below them. “And I suspect that’s the reason you throw yourself willingly in front of bullets.”

“Lately,” John said, feeling as if he needed to catch his breath, “I’ve been reconsidering that attitude.”

“Good.” Harold turned to him. “This office is dreadful. I should quit.”

John laughed, low and easy, hearing the truth of that but knowing that Harold wouldn’t, at least not today. “It could use new carpeting, but dreadful is a bit strong.”

Harold actually looked down and shuddered. “Let me get my things.” He went to his desk and filled a computer bag, finally straightening a few items on his desk and locking his middle drawer. “Ready, Mr. Randall?”

“Yes, Mr. Wren.” John scooped up his backpack, got the door for his boss, and smiled at Miss Park. Harold didn’t head for the elevator. He made his way to another desk not far from his door and stopped in front of what John assumed was another secretary. John took up a position at Harold’s shoulder and put on his ‘agent’ face.

“Miss Jones, you are allowed to smoke on your scheduled breaks and your lunch in the designated areas outside the building. If you don’t abide by the company’s rules in this matter, I will terminate you for cause and you won’t be receiving unemployment. Have I made myself clear?”

Her face was an interesting shade of red, and John could smell both fear and anger. “Yes, sir.” But her heart wasn’t in it. John glanced over and saw Miss Park trying to contain her joy.

“Harold, she has a vape in her hand,” John said, unable to keep his mouth shut.

Harold screwed up his face in disgust. “Never mind. Miss Jones, you’re terminated for cause. Miss Park, please help her clean out her desk and have security escort her out of the building.”

“Fuck you,” Miss Jones said, taking a deep breath of the vape and blowing smoke at Harold.

“I think that’s why the carpet is so wretched.” Harold turned from her, not giving her the satisfaction of an answer. He sighed. “I still can’t believe I was promoted.”

“It’s terrible that you’re good at this.” John escorted Harold to the elevator, past a celebrating Miss Park and another lady who gave her a high five. “Good thing I was here. She might’ve stabbed you with her letter opener.”

“I’ll find excuses for you to come visit from time to time,” Harold said as they got on the elevator. “But after they install new carpeting.”

“And bullet-proof glass.” John liked Harold Wren.

“Pie in the sky, Mr. Randall. Pie in the sky.” Harold didn’t call for his car. He and John hailed a cab, and Harold gave him the address. John paid the woman when they arrived, and Harold stood on the sidewalk until John was next to him. He dug in his bag, found the proper set of glasses and his cane. He snapped it out straight and took several deep breaths.

“Harold?”

“Just finding Harold Crane. He can be a bit of an ass, very demanding. Don’t walk next to me and don’t smile my direction.”

“I’m your fierce bodyguard, got it.” John didn’t smile.

Harold nodded, handed John his bag to carry, and straightened his shoulders. He pushed his hips forward slightly and changed his limp altogether. It was more painful but coupled with the cane he looked less… handicapped. He couldn’t explain it, but it was true. The front of the hotel was in good repair, and he let himself turn a grim eye on everything he saw, mentally making a list of complaints.

They had turned out the red carpet for him, and he saw that John was a little repulsed by all the ass-kissing. He remembered now why he’d purchased the place, liking the granite mixed with old hardwood. This hotel had seen its share of celebrities, and the infinity pool on the 15th floor where they’d be staying still drew quite a crowd, but not tonight. The bar would be closed, and they would have complete privacy.

“Mr. Crane, I hope everything is to your liking.”

“I do, as well, or you’ll be looking for a new job come the morning.” Harold felt John step a little closer. “Dinner will be in an hour. I expect a sampling across the menu, a little bit of everything, and the steaks, three of them, should be medium rare.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man looked as if he might faint. “The manager intended to be here, but…”

“He’s fired.” Harold would brook no excuses. The owner shows up after several years and the manager isn’t on site? “I’ll be going through the books to find where he’s been stealing from me. The suite has a computer?”

“Um, no, but I’ll find you a tablet?” He scurried away, and Harold was sure they’d foister something off on him.

Harold turned a little and poked at John’s leg with his cane. “Take the bags to our suite while I fire half the staff and discover why the manager is a thief.”

John nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Crane. Don’t fire me too, okay?”

“I make no promises.” Harold snorted. He moved behind the desk and began ransacking the hotel’s files. “This is a disgrace. I know I hired a computer programmer at some point.”

“He quit.” The young lady in an impeccable uniform didn’t look intimidated by him. “Please fire me. I hate working with these losers.”

“You, I’ll keep.” Harold controlled a smile, but he began to think that John was right. He was so busy with the numbers that he needed to cut back on his investments. People needed oversight, and he’d been sorely lacking in his ability to give it. He’d keep one hotel, possibly two, but this one would be up for sale by tomorrow. He alerted the authorities to his manager’s theft, fired four more people, two by email since they weren’t on the premises, and turned to Miss Carter. “I need a manager. You have the degree and the training.”

“But I’m a woman.” Her eyes dared him to do it. “This industry is all about dicks.”

“Then purchase one. You’re the new manager. Get this place into shape by the time I check out.” He stepped away from the computer, but he’d be back at it later. His bodyguard had been waiting patiently, but Harold swore he could hear John’s stomach protesting. “Mr. Randall, your stomach is a problem.”

“I’ll speak to it firmly.” John trailed him to the elevator and pushed the button for their floor. “A strap-on? Harold, I nearly fell over.”

“I hate wasted talent.” Harold let his shoulders relax when the elevator doors were shut. He vaguely remembered that this elevator used to be staffed. “Is everything to your liking, Mr. Randall?”

“Very posh.” John made a show of clearing the hallway for him. “Where is everyone?”

“Not here.” Harold checked all the details, deciding his new manager needed to speak firmly to the cleaning staff. He sent her a quick text and stopped when John opened the door to the suite. John cleared the room, and he seemed to be enjoying it. Harold put his cane by the door, found a comfortable chair, and let his leg rest a minute. “I’d like a whiskey, please.” 

“Why, Harold Crane, you are bossy.” John clinked the ice into the glass and brought it to him. “I had no idea you were such a tyrant.”

“Pray you don’t ever meet Harold Ostrich. I truly dislike him.” And Harold smiled, just a little. He stretched his leg several times. “Do you like Mr. Reese?”

John had his own glass of whiskey, and he sat nearby. “Not all that much.”

“I am terribly fond of Lion John.” Harold capitalized the word ‘lion’ in his mind. “He likes a good steak.”

“He eats far too much plastic.” John smiled and took a drink. “This is the good stuff.”

“Remind me not to take a pain pill.” Harold made serious inroads on his glass. “The name isn’t who you are, John, not on the inside.”

“I hope not.” John got Harold a refill. “You think the food will get here soon?”

“It better, or I’ll be firing the kitchen staff tonight.” Harold made his way to the dining table. “Can you get my bag for me, please?”

John didn’t answer, but he sat it down opposite of Harold after a minute or so. “I’ll admit I’m surprised you don’t have luggage.”

“I had someone bring over a few things to wear while I was at work.” Harold dug out his laptop and popped it open. “I’m very accustomed to being wealthy, Mr. Randall.”

“And me with just my toothbrush.”

Harold raised his eyebrows at him, waiting, and John rolled his orange eyes. “Really? Clothes for me, too?”

“Really.” Harold thought he could get lost in John’s Feline eyes, so he stared at his computer screen instead, latching onto the Wi-Fi. He sipped his whiskey. “If there’s no number, we may want to stay an extra day.”

“That Harold Crane is kinda cranky. Think he’d mind?” John sat close by, just one chair away, with his own whiskey and a small smirk on his face.

“He can be reasoned with, and sometimes bribed.” Harold fiddled with this and that, nothing serious, just to pass the time before the food came. “Did you check out the pool?”

“I didn’t go snooping. I did notice it’s not in here.” John was staring intently into his whiskey. “The bathroom is more of a spa though, hot tub and everything.”

“Forgive me for asking, but are lions much for swimming?” Harold turned towards him, unable to stop himself.

“It tends to bog down our manes.” John was teasing, just a little. Harold could tell, but John continued, “Tigers love it. Jaguars, too.”

“It said in the notes from the Center that jaguars are very rare.”

“I’ve never met one, but then again, after you leave the Center, the chances of meeting other Felines are pretty slim. Kara killed one in Brussels. He was a spy for Russia.” John shrugged. “Alec was the first kit I’ve seen since I was at the Center.”

Harold hated all of that for him. “Some countries let their Felines live in peace.”

“Sets a bad example for the rest of the world that’s trying to kill us.” John let his sarcasm roar, even though his tone was smooth as silk. “And me saying things like that was why I was beaten so often.”

“I’m glad they never crushed your spirit.” Harold wanted to crush the Center and the CIA, in no particular order.

“Not for lack of trying.”

Whatever Harold was going to say was interrupted by a knock on the door and the call of room service. John got it, of course, and Harold straightened his shoulders. He tucked his laptop away and put his bag by his chair as the waiters brought in a veritable feast. They put on a bit of a show, setting the table and laying out the food, some of which was artfully arranged. Harold made appropriate comments, but left John to thank and tip them, which he did.

It all smelled quite good, and Harold thought he might eat a little more than usual. John sat at the head of the table, and after a second, Harold scooted over one chair so they were close. “Please go first. Your stomach is furious with you.”

“I’m going to get fat.” John started filling his plate, sliding several dishes closer to both of them. “Do you like shrimp? It’s not my favorite.”

“I do.” Harold didn’t play host this time. He wanted to avoid seeming pushy, like the last time they’d eaten together in a hotel. Randomly tasting a few finger foods, he spent more time watching John than eating himself.

“Frosting on my face?” John raised his eyebrows at him after his first plate.

“Just admiring your stamina.” Harold did enjoy his steak, grilled to perfection. “I suppose I won’t fire them.”

“You sound sad.” John had begun to slow down, but he was on his third plate. His steaks were long gone. “I need a grumpy alias. One that strikes terror into the hearts of men everywhere.”

Harold enjoyed John playing it up like that. “The Man in the Suit is very scary. I’ve met him. Trust me on that.”

John growled a bit around a mouthful of chicken. “Stupid name,” he grumbled.

Laughing, Harold ate some more, enjoying both the food and the company. When he was done, he had to stretch his leg. “When you’re ready, let’s find the pool.”

Looking over the table, John sighed. “I suppose I’m done.”

Too many years hungry had left their mark on him, and Harold intended to see that John was never in that condition again. “There will be snacks later. I promise.” He led the way to the pool but John got the doors, and his eyes darted everywhere. The pool was still lovely, and even though there was a bit of a chill in the air, it would feel nice. “It’s usually closed by now.”

“It’s been a warm Fall.” John went to look out at the city, and Harold joined him. The New York night was showing off for them, and Harold found himself standing a bit too close but John didn’t seem to notice.

The smell of him made it hard for John not to edge just a bit closer, so he did. If he wanted, he could’ve wrapped his arm around Harold’s shoulders, but that would be going too far. Humans didn’t appreciate being mauled by Felines, or so he’d been told, over and over again. Then he remembered that he was starting a new life.

“May I?” John asked, keeping his voice low and steady and opening his arm to him.

Harold gave out a small sigh. “Please.” And he curled into John as he wrapped an arm around him. John swore he got a little light-headed at the pressure and warmth along his body. Harold smelled good, like tea and other nice things. “I’m afraid, John.”

But he didn’t smell like it. He smelled like he was very interested in getting even closer. John didn’t turn him loose, but he understood. “Me too, Harold.”

***


	14. Chapter 14

***

John was saving his surprise for later, after they had enjoyed the view and the swimming. Harold was a tough sell when it came to swimming, but John went to fix them another drink, giving him time to disrobe in privacy, and when he set the drinks down, Harold was in the pool.

Instead of diving in and swamping him, John took a drink of whiskey. He used the steps, enjoying the contrast of the chilly air and the warm water. “Surveillance up here?”

“Extensive.” Harold looked embarrassed. “I haven’t swum in years. I’d forgotten how it takes the weight off.” He started floating on his back, and John sank down until the water covered him. He held his breath as long as he could and then surged up. Harold splashed him in the face. “Show off.”

John laughed and splashed back at him while gasping for air. Harold went for the side of the pool, getting a drink of whiskey. “I could loop the surveillance, if you want.”

“I’ll get your laptop.” John took the keycard and padded back to the room, snatched it up, and went back to him. He set it by the pool, and Harold gave him the eye. “A little water won’t hurt it, right?”

“Right.” Harold didn’t get out of the pool, but he did wipe his hands on a towel John provided. He wasted no time, fingers dancing, and it wasn’t long before he looked up. “Done.”

Shucking off his swimsuit, John ran, jumping straight up and Switched right before he hit the water. He could hear Harold laughing.

Protecting the laptop was the first priority, and then Harold took another drink, watching the lion paddle around the pool. His black mane was everywhere, and whereas the pool seemed large enough earlier, now it seemed small. Harold didn’t mind, and he latched onto John as he swam by, letting him pull him along. John chuffed and snorted, roaring, not too loud, and Harold felt like he’d never smiled so much.

Finally, Harold left the lion to gambol about, getting out and not rushing to his robe. He wasn’t ashamed of his scars, not exactly. It was more like horror that he’d survived when his friend who’d been trying to do good for people hadn’t made it. His scars were stark reminders at both his frailty and his flaws. Harold rescued his whiskey, found a chair, and sat down to watch. He pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text for there to be snacks in the room within the half hour.

Tucking it away, he saw that John was in his skin – as he liked to say – very naked, hair wild, and a look on his face like a true predator. Harold had seen it before, on surveillance cameras, but never directed at him. He returned the gaze steadily, aware that John could smell a plethora of emotions. John prowled – a real strut – right to him and did the unexpected. He folded down to sit cross-legged at Harold’s feet and leaned his head back. Harold recognized the gesture and began to pull the tangles from John’s wet hair.

John let out a soft sigh and shut his eyes. After a moment, he said, “I’ve never, you know, been given a choice.”

Harold knew that, but he was curious as to what John was referencing exactly. He dug his fingers a little deeper into John’s scalp and noticed the breathy groan. “Well, now, you have nothing but choices. Is it unsettling?”

“It really is.” John let out a tiny laugh. He showed no signs of wanting to get up. “It’s easier when you’re telling me what to do.”

“I’m suggesting a path forward, Mr. Reese, that’s all.” Harold lifted a tangle and gave it a hard look. “This needs scissors.”

John let out a shiver. “Let’s go back to the suite.”

“A choice that I like.” Harold took the offered hand and controlled his face at the ache in his body as he got to his feet. He drained his whiskey and left the glass there, going to his laptop but John beat him there. John still didn’t have his swimsuit on, and Harold was glad he’d looped the entire floor. “After you.”

John smirked, but he led the way, swimsuit and laptop in his hands, and Harold enjoyed every step of the way.

Goose pimples had broken out all over his skin by the time they got to the suite, and John knew if he didn’t do it now, he’d chicken out. He put the laptop down on the table and went to hang up his swimsuit in the bathroom. He’d noticed the food on the table, but it could wait. Harold was in the bedroom, and John didn’t stare. He knew Harold had issues with his body, and John was ashamed that he’d thought him useless. Harold was extremely capable; his injuries barely slowed him down.

Grabbing up his small backpack, John went to grab a couple of snacks while he waited for Harold to dress. There was a nice assortment, and he even ate some fruit. When Harold appeared, he was dressed casually, in a deep forest green pullover. John smiled. It was Harold’s favorite color. Grabbing his courage, he took the back pack to Harold and Switched.

“What is this?” Harold kept a tight hold as he unzipped it. He peeked inside. “John, are you sure?”

John chuffed and touched him on the hand with his nose. Harold nodded. “I’ll get a couple of towels and a chair.”

Padding to the living room, John waited nervously. He’d never tried this, and it might not work. No one had ever cared what his lion looked like, not even a little. He looked at himself, reflected in the glass doors that led to a small balcony. He was big, but he didn’t see any patches. His fur looked nice enough. He flashed his teeth to look at them, and he understood now why people wet their pants.

“Yes, you’re very fierce.” But Harold’s voice was fond, and he smelled happy. John hadn’t smelled that very often, and he liked it far too much. Harold sat in the chair, and John didn’t even know what happened. He was just there, with his head in Harold’s lap, wishing he could purr. Harold fussed with the towels, unloaded the brushes, combs, and snippers from the backpack, and commented about every step of the process. John grumbled when it pulled, growled when he heard clipping, and hid his face when the brush fluffed his mane to a ridiculous height.

“This is incredibly satisfying,” Harold said with glee in his voice. “It’s even soothing.” His voice sounded a touch dreamy. He stroked his hand across John’s big head. “Okay, stand up. I need to do the bottom parts.”

With a grunt, John flopped over and put his paws in the air. Harold laughed, scooted his chair closer, and went to work. It tickled, mostly, and John finally had to get up. He was careful not to knock into Harold before shaking all over. His hair settled, and he felt strange. Going to the glass, he stared in amazement.

“Yes, you have a lot of hair.” Harold got up and patted him on the back. “Now, Mr. Reese, Switch and let’s see how it looks on the other side.”

Turning to him, John Switched and stared down into Harold’s eyes. Harold looked at John’s hair and pointed at the glass. “Handsome!”

John couldn’t believe it. His hair looked reasonable, a touch long, but not crazy and ratty. He even had a bit of a curl on top. “I’m shocked.”

Harold started cleaning up the mess, and John practically nudged him out of the way to do the work himself. There was hair everywhere, but he was diligent to get it all up and into a trash bag that Harold handed him. The towels went in as well.

They’d take the trash bag with them when they left. John kept checking his look in the glass, not quite able to believe they’d tamed his lion hair. Harold finally chuckled. “You want to Switch back and make sure of it?”

“Order me a couple more steaks?” John would need the energy. He’d really Switched too many times today. “And a jug of milk?”

“I certainly will.” Harold had a tiny smirk on his face. He retrieved his phone from a side table and sent off a text. “Sit and eat until the waiter arrives.”

“With no pants on?” John played up the scandalized face, trotting to the bedroom to grab his trousers. “I wore this suit just for you!”

“I know.” Harold sounded smug. “You look very handsome in it. Please don’t Switch with it on unless it’s an emergency.”

John strode back out to sit near the food. He’d skipped putting on a shirt. “I think you like clothes more than computers!”

“Appreciation is all.” Harold started pushing food at him, while eating none himself. He did sip another whiskey, and John had never seen him drink so much. “I attribute it to my Midwestern upbringing, which offered nothing but jeans and ratty T-shirts.” He drawled out the last three words in clear derision.

“I bet you never wore a T-shirt in your life. I’m seeing you as a plaid, long-sleeve shirt kind of guy, tucked in, of course. While I wore hoodies a lot.”

“Of course, you did.” But Harold didn’t refute the plaid shirts that John just knew he’d worn in high school. “I wonder what you’d look like in a vest.”

“Ridiculous is my guess.” John pushed the empty trays away, and there was a knock on the door again. This time, he let Harold handle it, going to the bedroom to remove his trousers and Switch. He was a little light-headed when his paws hit the floor, and he was staying in his fur until morning.

The outside door shut, and he padded out to the wonderful smell of steak. Harold was pouring a gallon of milk in what had been an ornamental bowl. John smiled at him before devouring the steaks in quick succession as there were no bones. It took some time to drink all the milk but he needed it. When he was done, he felt a little drunk, staggering on his paws out to the living room section where Harold was engrossed in his laptop.

“John?”

With a somewhat dramatic yowl, John slid up on the sofa and put his head on the laptop, stealing all of Harold’s attention. Harold sighed. “The good news is that your mane looks magnificent. The bad news is that it’s now in my laptop.”

Chuffing with laughter, John wiggled a little to get comfortable and shut his eyes. The laptop was pulled from under his head, and a gentle hand began to stroke him. Honestly, if he died right now, he’d die in a very happy place, and he was good with that.

“Oh, John,” Harold whispered, but he waited until the lion was actively snoring. He continued to stroke him, even though it was probably bothering him. They were definitely keeping the mane grooming kit, and he’d beg John to let him use it once a month, if not weekly. The muscles in his arms would probably be sore tomorrow, and it was so worth it. He’d start doing pushups again so he was in shape. His cheeks flushed as he realized how ridiculous he was, but he was self-aware enough to know that he was a little in love with Lion John, and he wasn’t going to admit his feelings for John ‘in his skin,’ not even to himself.

John’s paws started twitching, claws popping out, and Harold belatedly went back to stroking until John calmed into a deep sleep. Harold took another drink of whiskey and let the night ease   
away.

The smell of pain woke John up, and he bolted off the sofa, ready to kill when he realized Harold had fallen asleep with a huge lion half-on top of him and was in agony from it. John Switched frantically fast. “Harold? Harold? Come on, wake up.”

Groaning, Harold cracked open his eyes. “What?” He sounded awful.

“Let me help.” John tried so hard to be gentle, but he was hurting him. Harold shook, gasping a little, and John couldn’t stand it. He scooped Harold up and carried him to the bedroom.

“Mr. Reese!” Harold gasped, but John didn’t listen. The smell of pain and confusion drove him to do everything he could to take them both away. Harold didn’t refuse a pain pill, and he didn’t push John away when he helped him undress. Finding a comfortable position on the bed meant lots of pillows, and finally Harold caught John’s hand. “I’m okay. Just let me be, Mr. Reese.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, horrified at what he’d done. He turned and fled, feeling as if he’d ruined everything because he was a great, hulking beast.

“John! No! Wait!”

And John froze near the doorway. He ripped around, meeting Harold’s eyes. “I should go.”

“Please. No.” Harold sounded sure of it. He didn’t reach. “Please.”

Creeping back to the bed was hardly dignified, but it was all John could manage. He made sure Harold was covered and warm. “Sleep.”

“Don’t leave.” Harold’s eyes were shut. “Mr. Crane likes to be obeyed.” And he chuckled a little.

Staring at him in astonishment, John sat at the end of the bed awkwardly, watching him fall asleep. When Harold began to snore lightly, John wanted to run away. Far away, and never come back. He was such an idiot, and he scrubbed at his face. “Harold, you deserve better than me.”

“There is no one better,” Harold mumbled, but it didn’t seem like he was awake. John blushed, glad Harold’s eyes were still closed. He waited, and then waited some more before carefully lying down on the far end of the bed. He would watch until the morning.

Harold knew it was wrong, but when he woke up and saw John huddled on the edge of the bed, something inside him broke. He reached out, tugged the covers, and whispered, “Get under the covers, John.”

It wasn’t even a shock when John rolled to him and suddenly Switched. Harold laced his fingers into John’s mane and fell back asleep.

***


	15. Chapter 15

***

“I hope you found your stay enjoyable, Mr. Crane.”

Harold sniffed. “You’re not fired.” He gestured at John. “The car please, Mr. Randall.”

“Right on it, boss.” John went out, carrying the bags. He hadn’t wanted to leave any of their clothes behind, and Harold hadn’t argued about it. Harold felt the impatience of a number nagging at him. His phone had chirped incessantly at him, and John had roared from the bed, literally. Harold had explained, and John had dressed quickly, going out into the city to find the nearest payphone while Harold had struggled to get his body moving. At least John hadn’t been there to see Harold’s weakness.

Last night had been bad enough, and Harold was very sure that John blamed himself for it. They needed to talk, but it could wait until after the number. Harold would push away the wonderful feeling of John’s body against him and the luscious feel of John’s mane under his hands to focus on someone who needed saved, or sent to jail. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. The numbers were all that mattered.

If John was forced to tell the truth, which honestly, no one had ever managed, he’d say he felt like an idiot. He’d wanted to know how Harold felt, and he’d nearly crushed him figuring it out. The good news was that John was fairly sure Harold liked him. The bad news was that John was a menace and couldn’t be trusted to even sleep without causing problems. John remembered Harold’s voice as he brushed him, and he shivered a little as he put the luggage in the trunk.

Right now, John would get his head in the game and take care of the number, and then he’d find a spot near Harold and wait. Harold would tell him what was next. John trusted him. His thoughts were interrupted by Harold appearing down the steps, and John got the back door of the car for him.

“Thank you, Mr. Randall.”

John choked on an answer, going with a nod as he shut the door. He took a deep breath before sliding into the driver’s seat. Without a word, he pulled into traffic and got them moving to the garage.

“Would you mind terribly much dropping me near the library while you take our things to the first safe house?” Harold sounded as if he expected to be growled at, and John had done that before when asked to do simple errands.

“Not a problem. I’ll grab a sandwich, some contact lenses, and head back to the library. Have your car service pick this one up at the curb.” John kept his tone very even. They were a team. He’d do this, and Harold would start running the number. “You know, Harold, I’m not really that grouchy.”

“I’m just trying to respect your boundaries as a working partner.” Harold sounded so earnest it nearly made John growl at himself for being such a dick. “I need you to know how much I value you.”

There wasn’t a quick comeback for that. It all stuck in John’s throat, so he focused on driving a bit faster, and for once, finding a place to pull over wasn’t that difficult. Harold got the door himself, and John watched him walk away before getting back into traffic. Saying nothing was easier than screwing it up.

Easing himself down in the wooden chair, Harold let the rhythm of starting his computers soothe him. It wasn’t that he was upset. He, just, needed settling after last night. He’d tried very hard to show John how much he cared, and his damn body had betrayed him, again. Now, John was skittish, again, and Harold sighed at his own inability to think ahead and plan when it came to sleeping. Sleeping was one of those things other people aced, and yet, he continued to struggle. If it wasn’t insomnia, it was his hip, and if his body felt fairly good, his mind refused to quiet. Falling asleep with a lion in his lap had been remarkably relaxing, but, of course, it’d all gone to hell.

Information started popping up, and Harold forced himself to concentrate on that, nothing more. He did take a moment to stare into the computer’s camera. “I suppose you couldn’t have waited.”

The light blinked, and he accepted the rebuke. “I know. I know.” While he knew the numbers were the most important, if not the only, thing in his life, he also treasured John, and he was almost finished with denying it. The printer whirred to life, and he began the process of taping up all the information he could find. This number looked like a challenge, but he was confident in John’s abilities, and afterwards, they’d talk.

When the needle slid into his joint, John held onto his skin by sheer will. He would not Switch, not yet. It might break his legs if he did, and he couldn’t take the chance of discovery. Tucking his chin to his chest, he rode out the pain, letting it remind him of what he was, and what he wasn’t. He could survive this, if he didn’t get a bullet to the head.

There was no convincing the Stasi operative to stand down. The second needle, sliding in so gently to such agony, brought that fact home to John, and he let it throw him back to other tortures. This wasn’t nothing, and he began to breathe like a freight train.

“You and I are professionals. Comrades, of a sort. In you, I see myself.”

John breathed in the scent of him. “We-” he panted, “aren’t even the same species.” He bared his teeth, sweat dripping off him, but Kohl wasn’t listening, too busy poking around in the kitchen. John was being pushed to a bad place. He strained against his bonds, trying to think, not feel the pain. Hell, Harold was in pain every minute of the day. This was temporary.

“My daughter. They kept her from me.” Kohl sounded devastated. “I missed her entire life.”

“She never needed you.” John spat the words at him. “Men like you destroy people. You don’t make their lives better!”

Kohl was clearly done with John, preparing to leave. “Because of my respect, I will kill you quickly.”

But John couldn’t allow him to go after the daughter. He jerked against the restraints as hard as possible and flowed into the Switch. His lion was well-fed and furious, and the chair just disintegrated under his strength. Kohl seemed frozen in astonishment, gun slack in his hand.

“NYPD! Freeze!”

The guns went off at the same time that John surged, just managing to get a paw up to push Kohl’s gun away. Kohl’s bullet hit the wall, and John would’ve sworn Fusco’s bullet clipped his ear. Kohl hit the floor, head bouncing, and John got right in his face, teeth ready to finish the job.

“Astonishing,” Kohl whispered. “You win the game.” His eyes fluttered, and John smelled the life go out of him.

“What the hell?” Fusco’s voice was loud. John spun, snapped his teeth at him, and pulled on his skin. Fusco stared, mouth drooping open. “What just happened?”

“Nothing, Lionel.” John had to lean against the table and breathe, feeling like he’d been tortured. Oh, he had. “Nothing at all. Good shot. You’re a hero.”

“I am?” Fusco seemed to wake up, securing Kohl’s gun and handcuffing him, even though he was dead. Considering the German agent’s talents, it seemed reasonable. “I mean, I did it?”

“Well, I didn’t.” John had provided a distraction, nothing else. His clothes were in tatters, and he needed to lie down.

Fusco glared at him. “You did eat Elias!”

“I did not!” John roared back at him. Fusco took a step away, and John lowered his voice. “Are we going to have a problem?”

“Listen, Wonder Cat, my name is Lionel for a reason.” Fusco smirked. “My Feline granddad thought it was hilarious. I’m just praying it skips my son like it did me.”

“Me, too, Fusco. Me too.” John wearily started erasing his presence at the crime scene, making sure to get his gun. “Call for help. I’ll be out of here in minutes.”

There was a pause. “Hey, you okay?”

“Nothing a steak won’t fix.” John would take the chair parts with him. He found his phone and ear piece, tucking it in his ear. “Finch? You there?”

“Always, Mr. Reese.” Harold seemed out of breath. “Are you alright?”

“Kohl is dead. Fusco shot him.” John swore he could hear sirens, so he moved faster. “I need pickup. I won’t make it far.”

“John? I’m on my way.” Now Harold’s voice came tight and loud. “Where?”

“Two blocks from her house, look for the fire hydrant. I can make it that far.” John slunk out the back door into the night, hoping that if he’d forgotten something that Fusco would cover it up. Thin hope, but it was all John had. He found a shadow to hide inside and made his slow way up the street, praying no dogs were out tonight. When he got there, he found a wall to slide down and tried to look as homeless as possible.

The town car screeched to a stop, and John made it back to his feet before Harold tucked a shoulder under him. “John?”

“I’m alive.” John began to shake, knowing it was shock from being tortured. He was familiar with the reaction, and he more or less collapsed in the back seat, throwing chair parts and clothes in front of him. “Drive. Please.”

Harold slammed the door, went to the driver’s side, and they were moving.

“Fusco knows.”

“The wife and daughter are safe,” Harold said at almost the same time. “You did all that you could.”

“I was lucky.” John should’ve Switched earlier. He put his hands over his face and cursed himself for being an idiot. He’d learned so well to hide that even with his training, his instinct was to wait, and this time it’d nearly cost two people their lives. Kohl would’ve killed the wife and the daughter, and John had to gasp for air.

“John! Breathe!” Harold was driving a bit erratically. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No,” John whispered, but he could feel his entire body shaking so he probably wasn’t very convincing. “Need warmth, food. I’ll be okay.”

The car wrenched over, and Harold was out of the car. John tried to sit up, mostly failing at it, and then Harold was tucking a blanket around him and squeezing warm packs that he put under John’s arms. That done, he put about ten MRE bars nearby.

“Hang on, Mr. Reese,” Harold said. 

John shivered, astonished at the level of Harold’s preparedness. He used one hand and his teeth to open a bar and shoved it all in his mouth, almost groaning. It was exactly what he needed.

Harold watched him in the rearview mirror, scared out of his mind that John had a real injury, like a bullet wound. There was small amount of blood on his shirt, but the shaking and sheen of sweat spoke to shock. What had Kohl done to him? And was that a question Harold wanted answered? He drove faster, desperately trying to think of a safe house that was appropriate for a torture victim.

“Warehouse, Harold.” John sounded terrible. Nodding, Harold was glad it was late so traffic was minimal going out of the city. He made the trip in good time, listening to John breathe the entire way. When the last overhead door pulled down behind them, Harold let out a sigh of relief and drove carefully closer to the elevator. Turning off the car, he got the back door open and wondered how he was going to get this large man out of his car.

John lifted his head, groaned, and started pulling himself out. Harold tried to help but John started growling and tearing at his shirt so Harold helped him shed his clothes. It was a relief when the lion unfurled from the man. John staggered, threw back his head, and roared. With that, he ran off into the depths of the warehouse. Harold sagged down on the back seat.

“Cats,” he muttered. He took a minute to just breathe, and then he began cleaning the car, unsure what to do with the parts of the chair. In the end, he tossed them on the concrete for John to take care of later. Shutting the door, he went to engage the elevator, going down into the apartment below. He put several steaks on to broil, made sure there was a big bowl of water, and went to turn on the computers. Twice, he noticed his hands were shaking, not much, but he probably needed some food also. He snacked on a few things he found, making tea. John must’ve stocked this location at some point this week, and Harold was grateful.

The elevator rattled its way down, so Harold plated the steaks, fairly sure that even if John was in his skin, he’d eat them rare. But it was Lion John who stepped out and made almost a mad dash for the plate, and Harold didn’t have time to set it on the floor. John put all the steaks in his mouth at the same time and crouched on the floor to gulp them down. Harold went ahead and put the plate down, in case John wanted to lick it.

The steaks were gone before Harold could pick up his tea, and John drank the entire bowl of water. Harold refilled it, but John was licking the plate.

“Done?”

John sat down and stared right at him. Harold stared back, wondering if he should get more steaks out. “Please, tell me you’re going to be fine.”

Huffing out a big breath, John moved close enough to swipe his jaw along Harold’s hip. It didn’t hurt, and Harold took it as reassurance. “You had me worried. That man was ruthless.”

The lion became a man, and John shivered all over. “He was me. Or, at least, me before I met you.”

“John,” Harold said, brazenly stepping forward to take him by the forearm, “No, John. You never had choices. Kohl chose that life. It was thrust upon you. Who knows what you’d have become in a world where Felines aren’t bought and sold like property. You might’ve been a chef, or a security expert, or a race car driver. Kohl? He chose to kill people for his government.”

“So did I, Harold. So did I.” John had his head down. “I deserve to be in a hole, like he was, and I certainly don’t deserve to be enjoying steak.”

“Stop it.” Harold almost gave him a shake. “They lied to you, betrayed you, told you again and again that you were doing terrible things for the good of your country. Kohn enjoyed his work. I refuse to believe you did.”

“But I was good at it!” John looked wretched, as if he wanted to fall down.

“Well, I’m good at stealing people’s money and ruining their credit, it doesn’t mean I like doing it!”

For long second, John stared at him, and then he smiled – a real one. “Sometimes you do.”

“Okay, fair point. And has there been no one over the years who you felt deserved to die for what they’d done?” Harold put up his hand. “I know there was, but you are not Kohl.”

“Not even the same species,” John whispered.

“Exactly.” Harold couldn’t bear this conversation any longer. “Please, go to bed. Sleep as long as the Machine will let you.”

“Machine, huh?” John nodded. “A back door into a system that you built, a machine, who gives us numbers.” He snorted. “And you never lied to me.”

Harold froze, sure he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. “I never lie to you.”

“Come to bed with me. We both need rest before your Machine puts us to work again.” John yawned. He leaned over to get the plate, put it in the sink, and handed Harold his tea. “I’ll sleep better, knowing you’re safe.”

Shock that his transgression wasn’t costing him everything made him gulp for air. “John. I just…”

“Do you think I’d hate you for protecting me?” John curled his arm around Harold and began leading him towards the bed, still with his tea in hand. “I understand classified information, Harold.”

“I trust you.” Harold had to make that clear. “I’m just… frightened for what could happen.”

John put the tea on the side table. “A smart man once told me we were both going to die doing this, really die. I see no reason to doubt it.”

“Me neither.” Harold let John ease his jacket off. “But that doesn’t mean we have to rush into it.”

“I’m not rushing anywhere. Not after the day I had.” John helped Harold undress down to his undershirt and boxers. Harold made sure his phone was on the side table. John put Harold to bed and then gave him his tea. “I promise not to roar at your phone in the morning.”

“It is rather alarming.” Harold had to smile at his own little joke. “John, are you well?”

Around the other side of the bed, John slid under the covers and practically disappeared underneath them. “The man could give lessons to Satan.”

“He probably is.” Harold sipped his tea, propped up on his pillows the way he liked. He didn’t imagine the low chuckle from the heap under the covers. Two sips later, John was snoring, sounding much like he did when he was a lion. Harold smiled and whispered to his phone, “Let him sleep.”

The little blue light blinked twice.

**


	16. Chapter 16

***

John woke up slow and easy, taking a long stretch, a little surprised he was in his skin. He could sense Harold sleeping close by, and John was tempted to slide off the bed and flee, but he needed… a touch. There was an ache in his chest, and he wanted to find out if Harold had the same ache. Carefully, he tucked himself around him, filling in the spaces but not putting pressure on him. The feel of Harold against him made him bite back a moan.

“Oh, John,” Harold mumbled, and his hand came down to stroke John’s hair. His eyes snapped open. “Skin.”

“It happens,” John muttered, refusing to move. He wasn’t going to run from this now. There was something that had to be said, but he hated it. “I may never want more than this.” He shut his eyes so he’d be brave enough to say the words. “They hurt me, and I never wanted it in the first place.”

“I’m sorry.” Harold’s hand threaded through John’s hair, and it felt so good. “I’m in such pain, and then I take pills, and… it’s all very difficult.”

Sneaking a peek, John saw that Harold had his eyes closed. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know.” Harold never stopped stroking. “I will be, too.” He didn’t pull away when John gently put his hand on Harold’s arm. The morning dribbled away as their breaths evened out, and they comforted each other.

John thought, maybe, he was purring.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is where you need to bail on out if you have no interest in the crossover chapters that are up next! This has been fun, huh?


	17. A scene from Turn into Something Beautiful appears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't read if you're not interested in how this story dovetails with my SGA story!

***

“Mr. Reese, what’s your current location?”

“Dog park with Bear. We have a number?”

“Come to the library as quickly as possible.” Harold clicked off.

John scooped up the ball and sighed. “Sorry, Bear, no more fun.” He leashed him, and they started for the library, going faster than usual, but not rushing enough to draw attention. Bear hesitated at the hot dog cart, hoping, but John kept them moving.

The library smelled like home, and John took off the leash so Bear could dash to Harold for his usual treat.

“Harold?” John had never seen Harold look so astonished as he sat, staring at the computer screen.

“Sit.” Harold pointed at the chair right next to him, and John wandered over, only thumping down when he saw a large cougar in the White House press room. The President of the United States awarded the cougar a medal, pinning it to his dog tag.

“Am I hallucinating?” John tilted his head, finding that he was trying to catch the cougar’s scent, which was ridiculous.

Harold turned up the volume. “This is my second viewing, and I’m still working through the shock.”

“Did someone just ask him if he’s ever mated with a wild cougar?” John scooted his chair closer, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“That fellow is from FOX news.” Harold sounded disgusted. “Do you know the general standing next to him?”

“No, but he’s Air Force.” John said nothing more until he saw the cougar come back in his skin, with quite a bit of chest candy. “The cougar is also Air Force, a major, and he’s been in more than a few war zones.”

They glanced at each other. “This could be a good development.”

“Or it could be awful,” John said. “I think I’ll go hide under the bed until we figure it out.”

“We have a bed?” Harold furrowed his brow at him. “Oh, you’re teasing.” He clicked and paused the video. “I’ll start it from the beginning for you. I need tea.”

“Well, then this is an emergency.” John switched chairs when Harold got up, wanting to watch it from the front. He watched it twice and then took a deep breath before going to read the news. “Wow.” He didn’t look at Harold, who was sitting next to him with his tea. “Humans are stupid.”

“We are putting on quite a show today.” Harold sighed. “It makes me regret inventing social media.”

Another big shock today, and John turned to stare at him. “Harold, you have great computer powers, please use them responsibly in the future.”

“I accept your rebuke.” Harold drank his tea, looking completely unconcerned. John laughed, unable to stop himself and went back to reading. Finally, unable to take it any longer, he went to heat up a Hot Pocket. Harold called after him, “Get Bear a treat!”

Grumbling, John got him a treat while the microwave churned. He carried his Hot Pocket back to the table and slumped down to eat it. “Tell me there’s a number. I need to shoot someone.”

“Funny.” Harold shook his head. “Polls are running in favor of not killing all the Felines in the US. So, that’s good news.” His voice was drier than dust.

John shot him a glare. “Fine, use your powers.”

“I honestly thought you’d never ask.” Harold smiled but it was predatory. His fingers flew over the keys, and the clicking became almost non-stop. John shoved off his shoes, left his clothes on the chair, and went to scratch his post. Bear went with him, and they played a short game of tag before John jumped up to the highest point, leaving the dog behind. Panting, Bear went to get a drink and then crashed on the sofa.

John chuffed, flopped over, and took a nap. He’d deal with it later.

It’d been days since the Center had closed, and people were starting to come around to the idea that Felines weren’t a threat. At least, there were conversations about science and Felines going on that hadn’t before, but Harold insisted that John wear his contact lenses diligently. John didn’t argue about it, and it was only luck that Harold even had his connection open. They were restocking safe houses, and John insisted it be done in the dark of night. Harold supposed it did make sense.

“Mr. Randall, can we speak with you for a moment?”

“John?” Harold stopped what he was doing, letting his grocery bag thump to the counter.

“Military.” John was outside the first safe house. “Hi, guys. I’m busy, and it’s late. Another time perhaps?”

“This can’t wait.”

Harold found he could barely breathe. “John? John?”

The sounds of fists came through clearly, accompanied with grunting, and John panted, “Going dark.” And John’s phone clicked off. Harold knew the protocol they’d established very well, but… this was real, and he felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. Bear whined and pressed into him, and Harold picked up Bear’s leash to clutch it tightly.

“Come on, Bear. John will be fine. You’ll see.”

***


	18. The SGA boys are on the case

***

“Sheppard, we need your help on this extraction.”

John resisted rolling his eyes. “There are a lot of Felines in the US. Why is this one is special?”

“Not doing it. Busy.” Rodney didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Who even are you?”

Smacking him lightly on the leg, John smiled. “It’s Lt. Colonel Peck. He’s in charge of making sure all the Felines have a choice in their future.”

“Peck?” Rodney snickered and then cleared his throat. “Right. Whatever. Good job.”

“He’s an older Feline, like yourself, and when we approached him at his home, he beat up all the men I sent. The house was sold, and he’s in the wind. If we didn’t have the sensors tracking him, we would never find him.”

“We get canny when we’re old,” John growled. He didn’t want to take time to do this, but the older Felines were often dangerous to approach, and John had been stuck in the Mountain for days. Some sunshine would be nice. “Where is he?”

“New York City. I can have the direct coordinates sent to your phone. Prometheus is on standby to help.” Peck smelled relieved. “I sent six guys. Six!”

“No information on him?” John figured the Feline had to have been military, maybe Special Forces.

“None. We couldn’t even grab a fingerprint from the house.” Peck spread his hands. “The neighbors say he’s tall with dark-hair, so not a lot to go on there. He doesn’t appear to have an owner, at least we never spotted him with anyone. If you don’t go, I’ll write him off as a lost one, and we’ll just have to hope no one dies at his hands. Paws. Whatever.”

“Guilt is great motivational tool,” Rodney said. “But I’m still not going.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I’ll take care of it, somehow.” John waited until the colonel was out of earshot before poking Rodney in the side of the head. “And you’re helping!”

“Science waits for no one.” Rodney squeaked when John tackled him and bit at him. “Fine, but I want New York pizza and a falafel.”

John laughed and tucked his face into Rodney’s neck. “We can do that. Let’s beam up to the Prometheus and make a plan.”

“Guys! Guys! This is a public lounge! Go elsewhere!” Colonel Carter waved her hands at them. “Please! I will zat you!”

“Just jealous.” Rodney huffed at her, and it was hilarious. John peeled himself off Rodney and strolled by her, wishing he could swat her with his tail. Rodney waited until the hallway to chuckle. “She wishes she’d taken me up on that date now.”

“No, she doesn’t.” John flicked Rodney with his finger. “Now, let’s hurry. I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

***


	19. The fur is flying!

***

“This is a horrible plan!”

“He can probably hear you.”

John could indeed hear them, lunging to his feet and getting a gun. He made sure it was loaded with a snap. “Harold, get out, now.”

Harold turned from his computer. “They found you.” He clicked on the surveillance cameras, and they both looked at the intruders. “Not military.”

“You should leave. I’ll deal with them.” John wasn’t fooled. They had a plan, and it probably involved lots of military backup.

“Absolutely not.” Harold got to his feet. “Get out of sight. Let me send them on their way. Bear will protect me.”

Bear got to his feet instantly. John didn’t like it one bit. “Harold.”

“Go out the back door.” Harold started for the stairs with Bear at his side. “I can handle them.”

Growling, John prowled towards the back, but he wasn’t going far. Harold peered down the stairs. “Hello?”

“I’m going to be very angry if I die.”

“Shut up, Rodney.”

Bear growled, on full alert now, and Harold waited until they were half way up the stairs. “That’s far enough. What do you want?”

“Some coffee would be nice,” one of them grumbled.

“We just want to talk.” The dark-haired one raised his hands, barely visible in the dim light. “To the Feline.”

Harold was no idiot. “How are you tracking him?”

“Classified.”

“It’s a complicated system. You wouldn’t understand. Is that dog going to bite me? I’d really like to know beforehand.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m going with Plan B.”

“No, John!”

Bear barked several times, and Harold stood in shock as a large cougar dashed up the stairs straight at him. A terrible roar came from the other end of the library, and Harold didn’t even move when the Feline jumped over Bear and continued on with Bear in hot pursuit.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The blond was close now. “He gets impatient. Please don’t shoot him, or me.”

“What is going on?” Harold snapped, hoping John had his fur on, or a gun.

“I’m Dr. Rodney McKay.” The guy smiled nervously. “He’s--.”

“I know who he is.” It all clicked, and Harold felt a little weak from relief. That was Major John Sheppard, and probably, there wasn’t a squad of military on the way. “I have coffee.”

“I like you already.” McKay looked completely around, actually turning. “Are you guys superheroes or something?”

“Something.” Harold took him to get coffee and made some tea for himself, uncomfortable with how intuitive McKay was. “Sheppard won’t hurt him, will he?”

“No.” McKay seemed sure of it. “You are?”

“Dr. Harold Swift.” Harold went with his academic cover, thinking this was a good time. He poured him some coffee. “This is all very confusing.”

McKay took a huge gulp and held out the mug for more. “John and I work for an organization that’s trying to make sure Felines are extracted from situations where they’re… you know…”

“Sex slaves?” Harold refilled the mug, glad to keep this McKay far from his computers.

“That.” McKay pointed at him. “I was part of the team that liberated the Center.”

“I read that Director Kinsey killed himself.” Harold and John had agreed that was code for ‘shot while resisting.’

A short glare, and McKay put his hands on his hips, looking flustered. “He was going to shoot John! He killed two young Felines before we could stop him!”

A little stunned at this man’s verbal output, Harold finished his tea and had to sit down. He motioned for McKay to follow him and went down to John’s room. McKay stared about him and then smiled. “John would love this.”

“My John does.” Harold sat at the small table that he’d put in the room so he could pretend to work on a laptop. McKay joined him without a protest.

“So, you don’t own him? He’s not your property? I don’t have to arrest you?” McKay didn’t need the coffee for the caffeine, that was clear.

“Own him? Are you insane?” Harold couldn’t stop his outburst.

The door slapped back against the wall and a cougar ran in the room, sliding to a stop, tail up and wild-eyed. John and Bear weren’t far behind, and Harold yelled a command for Bear to go to his bed, which he did with a tucked tail. If Bear was hurt in the tussle, John would be furious. He was very attached to the dog. John was in his full glory as he barreled into the room with a roar, and the cougar took the moment to vanish behind some furniture.

“He’s enormous,” McKay said with awe in his voice. “His mane!”

“I don’t own him.” Harold thought that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “If anything, he owns me.”

John strutted over to Harold and swiped his jaw along Harold’s shoulder. Then he roared in McKay’s face. McKay didn’t even twitch. “Yes, you’re a large kitty. I’m very impressed,” he said in bored voice.

Harold knew John was disappointed in that reaction. “Well, this evening is certainly different from our usual.”

John whirled and started hunting the cougar. Harold sipped his tea. “He wanted you to at least look scared.”

“Never give cats what they want.” McKay checked his watch. “John! Are you done here? I have work!”

The cougar dashed over from behind a big chair, swatted McKay on the leg, and ran off. McKay sighed. “I guess that’s a negative.”

“I see he’s in charge, as well.” Harold almost smiled. “You’re Canadian?”

“Does it show?” But McKay nodded. “What’s your PHD in?”

“Computer Science.” Harold could tell this was going to devolve into an academic pissing contest very quickly. “But I have a Masters in Feline Management that I’m very proud of.”

“Hah!” McKay grinned. “Lots of meat and nip, that’s my method.” He drained his mug again. There was yowling from the corner, and they both winced at the sound of shredding furniture. John appeared briefly, flashing a smile at Harold, and McKay laughed. “Nearly all the Felines are heading to Colorado or Montana. We need to know that he has a choice.”

“I’ve been to Montana.” Harold wanted to get his hands on their tracking system, right now. “Ask him, Dr. McKay. I’ll go to my desk.” He got up, called for Bear, and went to his computers. McKay didn’t try to stop him. Harold didn’t open the surveillance window, only sitting, waiting, wondering if they needed to relocate to Montana, just until the dust settled. Knowing that the government knew where they were made Harold paranoid, well, more paranoid. He had other libraries. They could at least move their main base.

“Okay, I’m convinced. Also, I’m covered with lion drool.” McKay flopped down in a chair. “Nice computers. May I?”

“Why?” Harold wanted to say no.

“To let certain people know that you two are off-limits. I’ll wipe the location coordinates when we get back. Some idiot wanted to send a squad with us.”

Harold nudged the keyboard at him very unenthusiastically. “I don’t trust easily.”

“Don’t bother relocating.” McKay was very serious now. “I can find him anywhere, or any Feline, for that matter. The people who hid them, in horrible places, are all in prison now. John gets the final say, but I think this Feline needs to drop off the radar, so to speak.”

McKay’s hands danced, and Harold admired skill. “Planet-wide?”

“Of course, or what good would it be?” McKay glanced up at him. “Forget I said that.”

A cougar raced around the corner, took a look, chirped like a bird, and ran off again. Harold admired the dark fur on him. “Your John is very handsome.”

“Darker than most.” McKay smiled, wide and honest, and in a blink Harold understood that they were a couple. McKay glared at his empty coffee mug, and Harold sighed, going to fill it again. “Thanks, Harlie. Hey, does your John leave old bones everywhere?”

“Yes, and it’s Harold.” Harold would make more coffee, and he went to do that so he could laugh in private. When he returned, McKay had taken over the entire workspace, and Harold could see lines of code and data streams. Schematics popped up, and McKay started working on what was clearly energy output from some sort of enormous engine.

“That’d be more efficient with more air intake,” Harold said, just to needle at him.

“If only that were possible,” McKay muttered, and then he snapped up straight, eyes wide. “You didn’t see any of this!”

“Of course not. And John? He needs to disappear from your surveillance feed. Completely.” Harold continued to study the schematics. “Our government is making space ships now?”

“No!” McKay’s voice hit an uncomfortable level. He gulped some coffee. “Listen, I don’t think there is a way to make him disappear, not without jeopardizing other Felines nearby, and neither of us want that. Also, threats don’t work with me.”

“I think they do, but if it’s not possible, well, then, let me take a look.” Harold smirked at him. “I’m very good with surveillance, probably the best in the world.”

McKay narrowed his eyes. “You’re not published.”

“Neither are you, not lately, at least.”

“Carter will kill me.” McKay huffed like a Feline, probably picked up from his John. “Fine. Give it a go.” His fingers flew, and Harold watched it all unfold with glee in his heart. He loved a good system.

“This is very well done.”

“Of course, I’m a genius.” McKay was humble, as well, and Harold grasped the entirety of it very quickly.

“There’s no possible way to track individuals by DNA,” Harold said, furious at the program that was clearly doing exactly that.

“It’s classified.” McKay looked very smug. “You can see why.”

“Yes, Dr. McKay, I can.” Harold let his fingers still. He turned to him. “Tell me again who you work for?”

“I’m in enough trouble without that.” McKay took the keyboard back. “We’ll go with the whole Randall alias, and have him working in security, labeled not a threat. It’s the best I can do.”

“What do you do with Felines that are threats?” Harold needed to know that little loophole.

“We find them situations where they’re happy. Sometimes, it takes a little work.” McKay shrugged. “We’re the good guys, I promise.”

A roar distracted them both, and John came stomping around the corner. He pushed his head into Harold’s lap, and Harold gave him a pat. “Is that cougar being mean to you?”

John grumbled while McKay grinned. “John!”

The cougar sauntered over to them and licked McKay’s face, which lead to yelling and eventually they were on the floor not even pretending to be dignified. Harold needed to think about all this, but it seemed as if they weren’t going to be killed, not by this branch of the government anyway.

“John, we should get out that elk and share with your new friend.” Harold scratched behind John’s ear. “I bet Bear would like a bone to chew.”

In a blink, John was in his skin. “I don’t like him that much.”

“I saw you letting him lick your head.” Harold frowned up at him. “And they’re very kindly not sending a squad to shoot us, so we could share some meat.”

“But it’s good meat, from Montana, sent to me.” John glared at the cougar, who was sitting on McKay, who was flailing. “Also, he smells like things that are very strange, which worries me.”

Thinking of the space ships, Harold shrugged. “Let’s get the grill going on the roof. I’d like a steak also, and I think Dr. McKay could eat. Also? Trousers, please.”

John Switched before the last word, laughing in his lion way. Harold glared after him, but the cougar sidled up, almost close enough to touch. Extending his hand, Harold waited. The cougar gave him a long sniff.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Major Sheppard,” Harold said. “You’re very handsome.”

“Everyone says that. He’s going to get a fat head. Did you mention food?” McKay stroked his hand down John’s spine, and John turned to swipe his jaw on him. “Stop that. Harlie will think you’re the boss, and you’re not.”

“Harold.” Harold thought the cougar had McKay well in hand, and they all started wandering after John, even Bear trailed them. It was going to be an interesting evening.

Paws dragging, John Switched when he got to the latrine, feeling the effects of way too much food and playtime. He yawned, took care of business, and dressed, going out to Harold’s computer. Harold was still asleep on the new bed upstairs, but John wanted to make sure they didn’t have a number.

There was a note and a small device on the table. _John, if you ever need a helping paw, press this little button. It’ll get you out of trouble fast. John Sheppard_

John stared at the little USB drive with a button before tucking it away safely in a pocket. In his job, it never hurt to have a trick up his sleeve. 

********  
End


	20. Epilogue

***

Years later, and a lonely rooftop held the sounds of gunfire. All the Kevlar in the world wasn’t stopping all the bullets raining down on him, but he put a lot of the men in their grave with head shots.

“John!” Harold’s voice drifted on the wind between the buildings.

John half-turned and grinned at him, content that Harold would survive. He ejected his clip, slammed his last one home, and took another bullet to the leg. Falling, he killed the man who’d shot him, but there were more coming. The counter on the laptop was almost at zero, and in all the chaos, he heard the sound of an incoming missile. Samaritan was taking no chances. He stayed down, letting his gun drop and knowing his fight was finished. Harold had been right. The job had killed him.

The comm in his ear crackled to life, and he heard. “John Sheppard. Button. Now.”

The pain made it hard to move his fingers, but he clawed it out of its interior pocket and pressed it, not knowing what it would do but trusting Harold’s machine. A flash of light, and he could feel metal beneath him and strange air filled his lungs, so many weird smells.

“Medical! Medical! We have an emergency!”

“Do not Switch! Do not!”

John blinked up at them. “Save Harold. He was shot.”

“Get the Feline surgeon! Move!” The voice was behind him. “And get a squad at the beaming location. Check for casualties. Let’s move, people!”

They got him on a gurney, and he passed out. When he woke up, everything hurt, and he yelled a long yowl, needing his fur, needing it.

“Don’t Switch! John, no! You’ll die!”

Harold’s voice went through him like another shot. “Harold!”

“Don’t! You’ll bleed out!”

Barely feeling Harold’s hand, John focused on that. “Not dead,” he whispered.

“Not yet.” Harold put his head against John’s. “Not yet.”

********

“You’re not restful, Rodney. Go yell at Carson or something.”

“You’re furry and smell bad. I’m going in.”

John looked at Harold, who put his hand over his eyes. “We could see if there’s a back door?”

Sheppard pushed the curtain aside and grinned awkwardly. “Hey, hope you guys are feeling better.”

“Good job, Harlie and John, on not dying.” McKay was loud, but it was okay because John was alive to hear him.

Harold struggled to sit up a little, and Sheppard helped him get settled. “Take it easy, Harold.” He shot a glare at McKay. “Your surgery went well?”

“It did.” Harold looked pained. “It’s the physical therapy that’s terrible.”

“We’ve all been there.” Sheppard gave him an awkward pat. “John?”

“I’m okay.” John would need a cane the rest of his life, or so they said, but it was a small price to pay for the destruction of Samaritan. “We’d like to go home.” He pushed for what he and Harold really wanted. “Not that we’re ungrateful, or anything.”

“Hospitals suck, even military ones.” Rodney nodded. “But Carson says you guys aren’t mobile enough to go anywhere. His hip, your… body.” He waved his hand at John. “Have you Switched yet?”

“Not yet,” John said, meeting Sheppard’s eyes. “Not a good idea, Dr. Beckett says.”

“Believe him.” Sheppard didn’t smile. “When I was shot, he saved my life.”

“Morons and their guns,” McKay growled, and John saw Harold nod at that. “Do you guys have somewhere to go?”

John and Harold exchanged a glance. Harold cleared his throat. “We’d like to go to Montana, for now.”

Sheppard grinned. “Real estate is expensive there.”

“I have a few resources,” Harold said.

“Cough, billionaire, cough,” McKay, not pulling it off at all. “We’ll make it happen, but in the meantime, I have a coding issue.”

Harold’s eyes lit up. “Terrible thing, that.”

John and Sheppard exchanged an eye roll. “John, why don’t I get you a wheelchair and we can go for a… walk?”

“Sounds great.” John needed to look at something else for a while.

“And I have a few friends who want to meet you.” Sheppard smirked. “Furry friends.” He went to get a wheelchair. Harold and McKay had a tablet and were talking intently, and John smiled. He had a future with Harold, and from now on, no more dying.

********  
the end – for real


	21. godammit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm a liar.

********

John’s Halfway House for Felines, as Harold called it, was never quiet, so when Harold received a packet from Rodney, he often went out on the upper deck off the master suite to enjoy the view and spend some time on his laptop.

He pulled a blanket over his legs, slid the side table into place, and cracked it open with a smile. When the wind shifted, he could hear yelling out by the pool so he assumed all was well. John loved it here, and they’d started new careers without even discussing it. Harold worked with the Machine, who was barely a quarter of what it had been, but she was growing. Now, there were just numbers, and Harold trusted her to recruit teams to help solve those problems. Carter was particularly effective in Manhattan. When Harold wasn’t doing that, Rodney always had a problem or two that needed a look. It was fascinating.

John worked with the Colorado program, a Colonel Peck, helping extract Felines from bad situations all over the world and giving them a home until arrangements could be made. He had claimed he wasn’t surprised when Fusco showed up with his Feline son in tow, but Harold had known better. Fusco was the local sheriff now, and his son, a good-sized leopard, was starting to help John with the other Felines who arrived, some in very sad shape.

The house was bulging, and Harold had ordered construction on another wing to the house just yesterday. Bear nudged open the door and came to lie by Harold’s feet. He fell asleep almost instantly, and Harold wondered which Feline had been chasing him.

Deep into code, Harold startled a little when John sat down next to him, stretching out his leg and doing a few exercises. “Stiff?”

“A little.” John put his hand on Harold’s. “Having fun?”

“Someday, John, I want to go see.” Harold saved his work and shut the laptop. “Rodney says you have the gene, and they could use another hand.”

John laughed, orange eyes twinkling. “Sounds like Sheppard needs time off so he’s throwing me in Rodney’s path.”

“Maybe.” Harold smiled. “Have you heard from Shaw today?”

“She’s working a number in Florida, and damn miserable, or so she says. She’s demanding custody of Bear.” John reached and patted him on the head. “We should get her a puppy for Christmas.”

Harold wasn’t giving up Bear. “Perhaps she needs a Feline partner of her own.” He knew one or two who might be able to keep up with Shaw.

“She’d eat them alive, but they might like it.” John grinned. “I had dinner delivered inside.”

“Why, sir, you pamper me.” Harold could admit to some hunger so he pushed the side table to its spot and folded his blanket. John got up with a small groan and extended his hand to give Harold some leverage. Harold leaned against him once up. “Thank you.”

“Did you do your physical therapy today?”

“Yes, John.” Harold hated it, but he could admit that he was growing stronger. He also had less pain in his hip, which was a very good thing. “Did you?” He knew John’s leg hurt him, but the stubborn Feline never complained, even when he limped, not that he’d use a cane, because he refused.

John nodded, and they went to the table together. They didn’t linger over the food, and Harold wasn’t surprised when John put his fur on after the meal. John hopped up on the bed and growled at the world, probably because his leg hurt. Harold prepared for bed and then joined him, sliding under the covers but making sure that his hand was on John’s mane. “You need a good brushing.”

Grunting, John scooted closer, and Harold started to pet him, knowing he needed it. He fell asleep that way.

The sun pouring in the window woke John up, and he was a little surprised to find himself in his skin. He stretched under the covers and kissed Harold on the forehead. Sometimes, on mornings like these, he wondered if they should have sex, if it was a thing Harold wanted but didn’t ask for because he knew John didn’t like it. John cuddled close to him and breathed in the scent of him, loving this time of day. No kits demanding his time, not yet. Just Harold, and it felt right to be with him.

“John? Do you want?” Harold must’ve been reading John’s mind again.

John didn’t even know how to answer. He wanted touches, just not in that way, but he couldn’t say that. He ducked his head, trusting Harold wouldn’t hurt him. “Whatever you want, Harold. That’s what I want.”

“You could tuck a little closer. You’re not so bony any longer,” Harold said, and John did just that with a smile. What they had was perfect for them, and Harold sighed softly. “I’m very glad the job didn’t kill us.”

It was impossible not to chuckle. “Me too, Harold, me too.”

********

the end


End file.
